


Season Unending

by choiminhovevo



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Altmer!Lafayette, Bosmer/Imperial!John, Breton!Alexander, Dark Brotherhood!John, Gen, M/M, Orsimer/Redguard!Mulligan, Redguard!Burr, Redguard/Altmer!Schuyler Sisters, if there's anyone who would Shout it would be Alexander, listen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-08-15 23:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8078611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choiminhovevo/pseuds/choiminhovevo
Summary: The dragons have returned, and the future of mankind is in peril. A young outsider who escapes the impossible could be more than he seems.





	1. A Chance Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> This is heavily following the storyline to Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, with characters from the game in it with people from the musical. Apologies if you don't understand the myriad of name drops and Dragon language drops, but I, am a nerd, and I love this game with my entire heart (like, your loss if you haven't played it). Skyrim is like, 300+ hours of gameplay, and so, this fic is gonna feel like 300+ hours of gameplay. Just look at the chapter 1 word count. You're welcome.

 

 

崮

 

 

There are many taverns in Skyrim that offer the creature comforts to the myriad of mortals stumbling in to stave off the chill, but very few- in fact, one- that offer a small reprieve for those associated with the College of Winterhold. As the Frozen Hearth is the last reputable establishment in the Hold, Dagur, the proprietor, swallowed his pride and allowed magicka practitioners to come and slake their thirst and alleviate their hunger-so long as they don’t hex the tankards or set the hearth afrost (don’t take the name too literally).

    Hercules Mulligan steps into the Frozen Hearth after battling the blizzard that Winterhold frequently endures, shakes the snow out of his hair and spots Gilbert Motier Marquis de Lafayette nursing a tankard. Gil’s back is turned, but Hercules can spot his Altmer friend easily by his poofy hair pulled into an Elven war ponytail (as was his custom) and his well-worn yet ornate Robes of Eminent Alteration. Haran the tavern maid notices Hercules’ presence and fixes her grim expression into something less than unwelcoming. “Come on in,” she calls over the roar of the freshly stoked fire. “Take a seat. Get some of the cold out.” Hercules nods in return and sits on the bench next to Gil and in an instant Haran hands Hercules a battered (but at least it’s clean) tankard.

    Gil doesn’t look at Hercules and drains the dregs of-- a bottle of Colovian Brandy? Well Dagur can’t precisely afford Black Briar Reserve or something fancier for the elf-- but as he swallows the spirit he murmurs, “Good to see you, my friend.”

    “And to you, my friend. How fared your trip to Falkreath?” Hercules goes to pour some brandy in his tankard, but notices it’s near empty. “Couldn’t have left me some?”

    “I’ll order another, some warm spiced wine this time around, to shake the cold off those bones.” Gil calls for Haran to warm up some wine as he takes his dagger from his belt and deftly slices up a pear. Haran pours a bottle of Alto Wine into a cauldron and stirs in spices.

    “Any eventful things happen at the College while I was gone?” Gil drops pear slices into their tankards, his pointed ears pricking at the sound of Dagur pulling a chair across the floor.

    “Lee of the Illusion school took a group of students to Blind Cliff Bastion for field testing,” Hercules replies as he proffers the tankards to Haran as she brings the steaming pot and sloshes hot wine in. The liquid trickles down Hercules’ hands, the heat stark against his cold fingers, but he welcomes it. “Why they traveled all the way to Karthwasten, halfway across Skyrim, I will never understand. But you know Lee.” Hercules takes a large quaff of wine, feels a feeble warmth blossom in his chest.

“And you didn’t tag along? A slight warmth in the Reach than here in Winterhold, if I can recall.”

    “The new shipments of Netch leather and perfecting the enchantments on armor. Trying to expand my craft.” Business is slowing to a trickle, as Winterhold is no more than a few huts, a goods store, and the jarl’s longhouse. Unless a faction of the Stormcloak army or the Imperial Legion come in, Hercules is stuck with minor patches in an apprentice’s robes or maybe luckily someone brave enough to follow their dreams of joining the College is willing to shell out the coin to buy a robe. The prospect of an army faction coming in sounds more likely.

    Gil agrees. “The heat of the forge is welcoming in this frozen clime,” he notes, swirling the pear slice in his wine.

    “Your trip to Falkreath. I notice your entourage is not here, so, did something happen?” And Gil sighs, fatigue evident on his face. Hercules notices small cuts and scars hidden in the Altmer’s scruff. Gil is always in impeccable dress and composure; never has Hercules seen his friend even minorly rumpled or injured. Gil lifts his left arm and shows Hercules his robes and exposes the sleeve. The cuff is gone, burned away by fire, all the way up his sleeve and across his chest. This robe was a special gift that only a member of the Lafayette House can adorn, as it personally augments the wearer’s strongest abilities and increases vitality. Rarely does Gil fight, but the few times Hercules has seen him in action, that with this robe, Gil was nearly invulnerable. How Gil still managed to wear the robe is beyond Hercules; it’s in tatters.

    “Even past my Dragonhide and Circle of Protection spells, the flames pierced through my robe and almost immolated me,” Gil wryly says as he takes in his Orsimer friend’s look of horror. “My company and I met up with a Thalmor group to Helgen. They were executing, stragglers? Defectors? Trespassers? Didn’t matter who you were, you were doomed for the headsman’s eyeless gaze.” Gil takes a gulp of wine and shivers. “They were about to execute a Breton who they accused of being a Reachman, and from his accent, the Breton didn’t sound like he came from Skyrim or High Rock at all, when this _dragon_ came down.” Gil’s pupils dilate and tendrils of fear pulsate up his spine. “This dragon, was the biggest I’ve ever seen. Its wings shrouded the sun; it’s breath melted stone. And its _eyes_ , even the fires of Oblivion were dying embers compared to it.”

    “Where did it come from?”

    “Hellfires of Mehrunes’ realm, for all I know. It was unseen; hidden behind the mountain or the boughs of the trees, and the next…”

    “What happened?”

    “Destruction is what happened. The dragon may have wiped out the Imperial faction and the Thalmor group, but not before it slaughtered the civilians of Helgen and the wrongly accused. Very few from my company and maybe some prisoners made it out.”

    “Helgen, mayhaps, is a two days ride from here. You’ve been gone far longer. Nine, if I can recall.”

    “Fortune did not smile upon us when we made the harrowing escape. Every time we made camp, whether in a village or in the forest, there would always be a dragon. Not the same from Helgen, praise Akatosh, but still. From Whiterun to Morthal; we’d no peace. We would fell the beast, but it seemed to always come back. We had to divert to Morthal and Solitude. A group of twenty good Altmer with skills in bow and spell I went with, and I returned singed and weary and only two remain.”

    “Two?” Hercules’ voice comes out in a soft cry. “That is ill news indeed. Praise Malacath that you are here still.” Gil gives his friend a tight smile and continues to drink his wine. “Word of Helgen must have reached the Holds, and the other provinces.”

“If it did, it fell on deaf ears. More calamity in Skyrim? The remaining few in this town are indifferent to the growing threat in this region.”

“Mayhaps the Nords have forseen this--the end of times is upon us.” Gil’s mouth twists into bitter sadness; his amber eyes staring hard at the wall. “So much _death_ in Helgen, and the hell-wyrm scourge only grows.”

“Don’t speak of such ill news, my friend,” Hercules tries to change the subject. “You are here, alive, and I am glad to see you still in one piece. Let us drink to the memory of your company.”

Gil gestures to the empty Colovian Brandy bottle. “Already done,” he chuckles softly without mirth. “I come to Winterhold to ask you to fix my robe before I make it Hjerim to lick my wounds and return to Whiterun to report to the General.”

“You could have sent a courier. Rest is what you need most.”

“The quicker my robe can be fixed, the better. I also come to speak with Margarita on her findings of dragon burials. If she has found time to discover any.”

“You’ve come just in time; Margarita has returned from Whiterun, only to have diverted to several Nordic ruins. I am certain she has a wealth of information about the dragons that nearly defeated the pride of the Lafayette House.” Gil has a sour grin that doesn't reach his eyes. The two drink their wine and converse, about the growing presence of the Aldmeri Dominion, who would take the throne of Solitude; enough where Gil is feeling better and Gil leaves a few Septims on the table after he and Hercules mutually agreed they had enough; they’ll sup in the Hall of Attainment at the College.  Gil opens the door to the howling wind whipping snow and ice in their faces, and the warmth of wine is soon gone. Gil makes a comment how eager he is for Hercules to fix his robes over the shriek of the wind and snow swirls. “it'll cost you.” Hercules remarks over the wind, and Gil probably replies how his family fortune will readily give Hercules the room to gather ingredients appropriate for a noble mage robe.

“Spider Daedra silk, cotton from the lambs of Hammerfell, ground void salts-”

“Will cotton from sheep of Ivarstead suffice?” Hercules jokes, and Gil scowls and with a twitch of his fingers he conjures a Flame Atronach.

“Casting hexes outside the College? A jape, Gil. I'll get you the Hammerfell wool.” the Atronach dissipates in a fizzle, snow evaporating in the freezing air as quickly as it falls. “Actually,  that Atronach would have been allowed given the weather. Conjure it back.”

“Let’s get back to the College. A cup of Alkanet flower tea, a word with Margarita on my travels, and a gentle rest would set me right. And a word with Burr, if he's returned from Solitude.”

“I believe he was in Falkreath, or Dawnstar. Burr is a fleet fellow. You can never be too sure where he is, really.” Altmer and Orsimer trek the icy walkway over the frozen sea to the College of Winterhold. Below the depths lies half the city of Winterhold, and on a rare clear day one could see remnants of the town in the shadows of the water. The Great Collapse happened long before Hercules wound up in the northernmost areas of Skyrim, and it was a risk moving to a place where the whole of Skyrim shunned its existence. He never meant to stay in a place that was far too cold for a young Orsimer from the desert outskirts of Skaven. A longing to go to the other cities,  maybe he could have tried to make a living in Solitude or Markarth. _Or I could have stayed away from Skyrim, made myself known in Cyrodiil or Valenwood._ But his Redguard father saw his potential with enchanting robes and building staves, and planted the notion in Hercules’ head that he could do more with his craft with mages than warriors and barbarians. Spending days mending apprentice’s robes and strengthening enchantments could bore anyone,  but the College of Winterhold to him was free lodging, access to boundless knowledge, and protection from the increase in dragon attacks. The meager, yet steady septims from the mages didn’t hurt either.

A man stands at the entrance to the College, snow piling on his shoulders as he talks to Faralda, an Altmer Destruction scholar and defender of the Gate. By her side is Master Conjurer and man of many agendas Aaron Burr, a Redguard who routinely shook the snow off his smoothly shorn head.

“Ah, Mr. Burr _is_ here,” Gil remarks. “Who is this? Another addition to the College, most like?”

“And why, pray tell, must I let you in?” Faralda looks severely disinterested in the words of a strange man poorly dressed for the harshness of Skyrim. The man is visibly shivering, for his tunic is merely homespun and his leather chest piece is in dire need of repair. A battered iron sword hangs behind his shoulder and a base Staff of Firebolts is in his hand. An Amulet of Mara is wrapped around his wrist. A defected soldier in search of refuge from the plague of war, perhaps. He's not a Nord,  though, too slender and dark-haired.

“Alexander has traveled far from the warm sands of Elsweyr to learn Restoration, “ the man named Alexander says, and his accent is foreign. Elsweyr?  He's not a Khajiit.  “The Khajiit caravan he traveled with from Torval to the Imperial City to join the Mages Guild-”

“The Mages Guild was destroyed by the Mythic Dawn shortly after the Second Era,” this was Aaron who spoke up. “Surely news of its destruction reached the cities of Elsweyr.”

Gil looks at the stranger Alexander, and starts. “By the grace of Akatosh,  it's you!” Alexander turns and his large, curious eyes bore into Gil, unblinking. He seems confused by the outburst.

“The one from Helgen! Praise Akatosh, you’ve escaped!”

 

崮

 

“Gil, you know this man?” Faralda looks at the Altmer noble, then looks at his state of dress. “Your robe, Gil, what happened? Aren’t you cold?”

“Another story for a different time. This man can attest for where I’ve been. He may not have seen me in Helgen, but I saw him.”

Alexander’s eyes widened as it came to him. “You were there?” He asks.

“That I was, and the Nine Divines were good and just to spare you,” Gil puts a hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “You were the one about to be executed.”

Alexander’s gaze hardened, but a flicker of fear colored his features. “They did not give the man before Alexander a proper trial,” he almost spits. “An old man who they accused of spying against them, they chopped off his head without preamble. His body was still lying there in the straw as this one was being pushed down towards the chopping block. The lawlessness of Skyrim, why did Alexander even bother to make the journey?”

“You can thank the Imperial Legion for that one,” Aaron says. “They believe they can govern the entirety of Tamriel and enforce their laws and practices anywhere they so choose.”

“In case you weren’t aware,” Faralda adds. “There’s a war going on. Perhaps you are better off joining the Stormcloaks and getting into that petty rabble.”

“Alexander has come from afar to hone his magic,” Alexander replies in earnest. “This one’s mother was a great Alchemist, and an even better Restoration practitioner, but not enough to save her from an illness.” His shoulders slump and he looks weary, almost defeated. “She taught this one everything she knew, and this one learned more of Destruction and Illusion from Khajiit-Jo in Elsweyr. This one’s dream is to perfect his magic.”

“That may be,” Faralda says, crossing her arms. “You traveled thousands of miles to come here, then? All by yourself?”

“Alexander traveled with other Khajiits in a great caravan from Torval. We made our way across the Colovian Highlands and some chose to remain in Cyrodiil. We took the Jerall Pass when this one was separated…” Alexander trails off. He shivers. “This accumulation of frost magick; this one was not born with the fur that Khajiit are graced with. Alexander is at a disadvantage.”

“Surely we can discuss his admission to the College inside?” Hercules offers. “The man didn't travel all the way from Elsweyr to freeze to death.”

“He hasn't shown what he can do!” Faralda protests. “Rules state that anyone who seeks entrance to the College must show an aptitude to magic. Stories of home-taught magic and carrying an old staff around mean nothing.”

“Alexander can cast spells; Pyromancy is what he excels in.  But, perhaps he can sway you if he does this,” Alexander shivers as he takes in a deep breath, and for a brief moment the air stills. A gentle hum lilts the air, and even Aaron is paying attention. Hercules and Faralda wonder what this strange Breton is doing, what foolishness does this wanderer claim?

And then Alexander shouts,  “ _FUS.”_ An explosion sounds as the air physically ripples and the bridge beneath their feet rumbles. Gil nearly loses his footing and the snow is knocked off Aaron’s head.

“By the Nine Divines!” Gil exclaims. “Never in my travels and in my knowledge have I heard of magick manipulating the grace of Kynareth! An excellent addition to the College, wouldn't you agree Faralda?”

“This one didn't learn this in the warm sands of his homeland,” Alexander breaks the silence. “No tome, lesson, or self-discovery did Alexander know of this power. This one learned it in Skyrim, from a dragon this one slain.”

崮

 

Gil learns about the man who goes by Alexander Hamilton as Aaron, not Faralda, grants the stranger instant admission to the College. When they are situated in the private rooms of the Arcaneum, Hercules is set to work on Gil’s robe. Gil situates an Adept Robes of Destruction on his shoulders. A steaming cup of tea blended with Frost Mirriam, Dragon's Tongue, and garlic sits before him and Alexander. The Breton takes a shard of something that he reveals is moon sugar. “A gift from the warm sands,” he says. “The caravan Alexander traveled with had some. Forgive him, but the delicacies of Skyrim are tasteless and in need of improvement.”

“You'll get used to it enough.” Hercules expects the newcomer to drop the act and speak normally, or to drop the illusion and show his true Khajiit form. His speech is off-putting.

“It will suffice, for a time. It's been an age since I've been in these.” Gil sits at a table across from Alexander.  Aaron comes in, _The Legend of Krately House_ in his hands. “How fares Faralda?” he asks Aaron.

“She aired her grievances about me doing her job, but I was just moving things along. I could only wipe the snow from my head so many times.”

“Alexander has tried using the Flame Cloak spell to rid the frost magicks from piling on his limbs,” the Breton speaks up. “For a time, it worked. When he made the trek to Winterhold on his lonesome, it sufficed.”

“So you claim that, this air magick you learned from a dragon?”

“That is what Alexander said, yes.”

“A dragon that you've slain,” Gil cuts in. “But dragons can't be slain. Incapacitated, yes, for a time. A company of mine I traveled with paid a grave price to learn of this.”

“Alexander will never lie to those who have done him a kindness. After he escaped Helgen, he sought refuge in Riverwood with a soldier who escaped the hell-wyrm’s wrath. From there he was told to seek his fortune in Whiterun, if he wanted to continue his journey to Winterhold. Before Alexander could make his way into the Hold, he lent a hand to the guard against a dragon attacking the watchtowers.”

“Did Jarl Washington come and help?”

“Who is this Jarl Washington? Alexander has never heard of the name called Jarl.”

“Not a name; Jarl is a title,” Aaron explains,  flipping through his book. “Jarl George Washington, brilliant warrior; a reincarnation of Ysgramor himself.”

“if Alexander had met such a man, he would have remembered it.”

“But, the dragon,” Gil presses. “A group of skilled bowmen and wizards were no match for dragons we ran into.  And yet _you_ , a man who speaks like the Cathay peoples, claim to singlehandedly destroy a dragon. In my years of experience I have never heard such a claim.”

    “Alone without aid of the Whiterun guard, no. Mayhaps with their bows and swords, Alexander was able to serve the killing blow. Alexander leapt off the tower, grabbing a sword from a fallen guard. Scared he may be, Alexander was willing to die for the safety of the Nords. The wyrm-beast had a guard in its maw, arrows bouncing pitifully off its scales, when it focused its gaze on Alexander.” The Breton’s eyes clouded with fear. “Alexander has imagined death so much in his short life, has escaped death so much he should anticipate it, and yet...”

    “And yet here you stand,” Aaron looks up from his book. “The Nine Divines were indeed in your favor.”

    “Mara protected Alexander with her benevolence. The wyrm-beast and Alexander stared down, and it… it spoke to him.”

“Dragons? Speaking?” This was Hercules. He cuts the edges of Gil’s burnt robe and exposes the fine strands. “Never heard of that before.”

“The dragon spoke in a tongue that Alexander knows nothing of, but he can recite what he was told,” and Alexander’s voice drops in pitch and he growls: “ _Thuri du hin sil ko Sovngarde, Bahlaan hokoron. Mirmulnir will appease the Wyrm-Lord.”_

“Dragons know Tamrielic Speech?”

“Why would a dragon be talking about Sovngarde? Is it that where they come from?” Gil asks. Alexander shakes his head. “If Alexander knew what Sovngarde was, he’d offer help. The wyrm-beast and Alexander dueled, and the beast tried to chew into Alexander’s side, but he was armored.” Alexander exposes the deep gashes in his armor; tan skin peeking through the leather.  “His sword swung true and sunk into the the wyrm-beast’s neck. It roared, and shouted something in its own tongue, and huge ball of flame erupted from its maw. Alexander surely thought it would be the end of him. The flames proved to be ineffective, for Alexander sits before you now telling this tale. The wyrm-beast shouted in indignation, and the air rippled just as Alexander did for you outside. He sliced his sword through the wyrm-beast’s neck, up into its great maw, and into the brain. The wyrm-beast fell in a loud clamor. Then a tempest swirled the beast’s form, and a fire engulfed it. Its flesh and scales scattering off into the wind, leaving its bones behind. The tempest engulfed Alexander, and he felt surrounded by an immense power. And the battle was done, and Alexander made his way to Winterhold, where he met you.”

A silence fell over the four, interspersed with Hercules cutting cloth.

“We braved against a dragon from Dead Man's Respite in Hjaalmarch,” Gil says after a moment. “A swift arrow caught between the join of its jaw and neck, and a bolt of Chain Lightning brought it down. For a time, it lay there, only to come back as if nothing happened. No offense meant, but I am one of the most gifted wizards Tamriel has ever seen. And yet, it was still too much.”

“It wasn't easy,” Alexander adds. “Surely Alexander thought this dragon would have slain him, if that flame breath struck true.”

“Mayhaps you are more than just blessed with the grace of the Divines,” Aaron puts down his book. “If what you say is true,” he begins, looking at Alexander. “Then what you showed us at the gate wasn’t merely magick, but a Shout. An ancient form of speech used by the dragons, as Margarita once told me. You would fare seeking wisdom of the Greybeards, if you would so choose.”

“Who is Margarita?”

“Someone you should have met first at the entrance of the College, instead of Aaron.” Gil answers. Aaron shrugs. “She could have been indisposed at the time.” He offers.

“Margarita is the Master-Wizard of the College, and the youngest in its history,” Gil continues. “By all accounts, she is the second most powerful wizard in Skyrim. A dazzling beauty, incredibly learned and capable, and comes from a noble Hammerfell House whose influence extends across the provinces. The Schuyler House, has its influence touched the province of Elsweyr?”

“Vaguely has Alexander heard of the House. He comes from humble means.”

“She is one of the many prides of House Schuyler, if I weren't promised to another in Lillandril…” Gil shakes his head. “Bah, she is most like to not think of that drivel.” Aaron looks at the door.

“Quite right,” comes a voice from the door as it opens. All except Aaron jump. “Too busy with the College to worry about someone winning my hand.” A woman cloaked in navy blue robes enters. “Plus, you're too old for me, Lafayette.”

Gil coughs, flustered. “Apologies, Master-Wizard,” he hastily answers. “It's good to see you've returned from Whiterun unharmed.”

“Julianos kept me safe while I traipsed the Nordic ruins. Soon I will make for Labryinthian. Now,” the Master-Wizard turns to Alexander. “I see we've a new addition to the College. And one who can bend the air, from what I'm told.”

“Alexander Hamilton, at your service, Master-Wizard.” Alexander stands and bows.

“Margarita Schuyler, a Scholar who never stops learning.” She smiles and Alexander can see the Redguard in her, but her skin is not as dark as Hercules’ or Aaron's. Altmer as well? Her height rivals Gil’s, and her ears taper into a point, hidden behind her dark hair. She is young, mayhaps as young as him, but her dark eyes tell of much wisdom. She looks as if she can hex a man to the Hellfires of Namira and back, if she wanted.

“Did Mulligan not give you any robes to signify your status as an apprentice?” Margarita asks. She looks at Hercules, sees the burnt remains of Gil's robe, and frowns. “What happened?”

“A dragon attacked the fortress of Helgen,” Gil explains. “I was there with a Thalmor group- yes I know I didn't want to be with them either,” he adds at Margarita’s sour expression. “Alexander escaped Helgen as well. He can tell you about it.”

“He speaks true, Master-Wizard, Alexander escaped the throes of death and fire. Many did not make it.”

“Ill news indeed. Praise Julianos you two are here alive.”

“Master-Wizard,” Aaron speaks up. “This air magick you heard of, perhaps it was a Shout? Alexander claims he learned it from a dragon he slain at the front of Whiterun.”

“A dragon attacked Whiterun?” Margarita pulls up a chair to sit amongst the three. Alexander animatedly retells the tale and Aaron studies the Breton. Alexander isn’t much to look at, thin from the sparse rations of the caravan he traveled with and the trek itself. Dark of hair and eye, he is unremarkably plain. There is a fire in his eyes though, a hunger to learn all there is and a yearning for greatness.

“And, what are you, Alexander?” Margarita asks, and Aaron refrains from answering _a young scrappy upstart from the unknown_. Alexander launches off into his life story and the four learn that Alexander likes to talk, but at least he’s well with words. From what Aaron gathers, he’s half Breton, half something else that even he isn’t sure what he is. All he knows of is that his mother was a Breton from Dunlain, and he never knew his father. His mother ran an Apothecary and studied the moons before she died of a flux that should have killed him.

“The Divines had something else for Alexander,” he says wistfully. “A shame they took his mother away from him so quick.” Alexander grew up on the coastal city of Senchal and everyone starts.

“The Maelstrom of Rain’s Hand?” Aaron asks. Alexander looks at him, and he sees fear in the Breton’s eyes. “You survived that?”

“Alexander shouldn’t have, he should have been swallowed by the sea along with the rest of his peop- the Khajiit friends he’s known since childhood.” His eyes are wet, but tears don’t fall. “A great port, mayhaps the greatest port of Tamriel: gone, drowned, driftwood.”

“A deckhand returned from the Topal Sea to Windhelm told me of the grave news,” Gil says. “It was then put on paper where couriers told the whole of Skyrim. It may spread to the other provinces as well. We were certain that no one survived that. But _you…”_

“The Divines truly are looking out for you,” Margarita says, and the rest agree with her. “I, and the Arch-Mage, will be expecting a lot from you.”

 

崮

 

“A Shout, or a Thu’um, is what dragons use to communicate,” Margarita explains as Alexander is gifted an Apprentice Robes of Destruction from Hercules and a Staff of Mending. “It takes years, decades, _centuries_ , if the Greybeards’ age prove true, to master the Way of the Voice. What you say you learned from Mirmulnir, may be simple to say. _Fus_ , or Force, is what caused the air to ripple like so. Can you show me?” Alexander gleefully shows the power, and after the floor stops shaking Margarita smoothes her robes and blinks. “Ah yes, quite fascinating. Books and teachings pale in comparison to seeing it in person.” A Dunmer fire mage scurries off after the clamor.

    “Alexander desires to learn anything and everything the College offers,” he says. “If he can perfect this Thu’um, then he can do anything.”

    “Alas, I am the only one at the College who studies the history and powers of dragons. I have been shirking my duties as Master-Wizard to learn what caused the increase of dragons appearing. Nordic legend claims that the dragons signify an end to an era, or an end to the mortals. Supposedly, the only thing that can destroy a dragon fully is by consuming its soul. Otherwise it will just keep returning.”

    “How do you know a dragon will always keep returning?”

    “From records I’ve recovered from a collapsed ruin in the Rift, the name Mirmulnir sounded familiar. If you say you fought Mirmulnir, then Mirmulnir was at least a thousand years old. He was hunted by the Blades, to no such avail.” Margarita chuckles, shaking her head. “The illustrious and formidable ancient Blades, ones responsible for the safety of the Emperor, and the killing of dragons, would hardly believe a young stripling killing a dragon.”

    “Surely, if Alexander can Shout, then so can others.”

    “Not exactly. Remember, I said the Thu’um, did I not? And the College didn’t shake and you remained on your feet. Perhaps if I were willing to devote my life to the Way of the Voice, forsake my status as Master-Wizard, and I don’t know-- achieve immortality, then why not.” Margarita escorts Alexander to the Hall of Attainment, where the majority of the College comes to rest. There is a secluded alcove on the third floor with a bed, cabinet, and a desk. “This is where you will rest,” she tells Alexander. “Your staves, your robes, and books shall be stored here. An arcane enchanter will be on the second floor-- you will be required to make an enchanted weapon at some point. You will be in close contact with other students, but will have enough privacy to study all that you wish.”

    “Is this…”

    “Your lodgings, for as long as you stay at this College.”

    “Is this, _home_ for Alexander?”

    Margarita pauses, and notes the unease and hopefulness fighting for domination on Alexander’s face. He looks, to put it shortly, exhausted. “If you want to call it that,” she answers after a moment. “Come now, rest, when was the last time you’ve slept?” From the pregnant pause as a reply Margarita gapes. “Do you not remember?”

    “He may have slumbered in a cave, briefly,” Alexander answers slowly. “No, he was knocked unconscious after he was separated from his caravan. He awoke on the prisoner’s wagon…”

“Gil said that was a week ago! You must rest at once!”

“Alexander will not argue with the Master-Wizard, but he is so excited to learn all the magick he wishes. Books to read, experiments to conduct-”

“All you will do if you get some rest. I will get Aaron to Conjure a servant of Vaermina to whisk you off to sleep if you do not.” Margarita lightly shoves him to his bed and his knees bump the frame. She turns away and makes way to her alcove, and she turns back to him. Alexander stares at the walls, the bed, the desk, the cabinets. His back is turned, but Margarita can tell from his shoulders finally relaxing, to the sigh he lets out, that he is overcome with all that has happened. _Perhaps he’ll one day surpass me, even Lafayette,_ she thinks. She stares on for another moment before climbing upstairs.

Gil and Aaron are seated at the forefront of Margarita’s room. She raises an eyebrow at the two. “To what do I owe the pleasure of two men in my area?” She begins. “is this a soiree? I haven’t had one since before Eliza moved to Whiterun.”

“We just wanted to ask you,” Gil starts.

“Do you think Alexander would be a Dragonborn?” Aaron finishes, and Gil glares at him.

Margarita’s eyebrow raises even higher. “That is a myth,” she answers. “And a baseless one at that. In my readings, the Dragonborn myth has been erased from history.”

“They say Ysgramor was a Dragonborn.”

“They also say Ysgramor also forged a battleaxe specifically crafted to eradicate the Mer folk. Many a time we explore the unknown and conjure familiars, Dremora or summon storms from our fingertips, but the idea of a mortal having the soul of a monstrous dragon is so far-fetched and outrageous even the Arch-Mage will shut that down quickly. Next you’ll tell me the Dark Brotherhood has come back.” Aaron stares blankly at her.

“How else do you explain an outsider singlehandedly slaying a wyrm-beast?” Gil asks. “Or claiming never to know how he learned to Shout, but effortlessly using one at his disposal?”

“As he said, the Divines are blessing him. Just as you are blessed by Akatosh and Julianos, he gives all his devotion to Mara. It is too soon to tell. Alexander has traveled far and endured many dangers to study here, and we must grant that.”

“That we will, but, if Nordic legends are true, if the dragons have returned to end mankind, then shouldn’t we have him be the savior of Tamriel?”

“He is young and afraid and overtly talented.” Margarita sighs. “I see him surpassing all three of us, the most capable Wizards that Atmora has ever seen, even the Arch-Mage himself. But a mystical holder of a dragon soul?” She shakes her head. “We all must rest. Lafayette you’ve returned to us from many dangers, and Burr you were off to where Julianos knows what. Don’t you have a Conjuration lesson to prepare for? Something about spell arrows?”

“If they can’t follow me, then there’s no hope.” Aaron gripes and Margarita glares at him.

“I want to take Alexander to High Hrothgar.” Gil offers.

“High Hrothgar? But you’ve just returned!”

“Not at this moment; I’m waiting for my robe to be repaired. Plus I’m not eager to leave the comforts of Winterhold at this moment. When I’ve my full strength, and have rested, at least.”

“And would Alexander agree to go with you?”

“I’ll just tell him he’ll learn something that few in Tamriel know, and that it will aid him in becoming the most formidable mage he’ll ever dream of becoming.” Gil makes his way to his space, while Aaron vanishes down the steps. “And we know that isn’t a myth.”

 

崮

 

Alexander is an eager participant in his lessons. He always volunteers for experiments, has exhausted his staff and refilled it many a time. He takes a particular interest in the teachings of Restoration Master Colette Marence, a fellow Breton who seems overjoyed that finally, a student believes that the School of Restoration is as important as the School of Destruction. He tries to befriend the only Khajiit apprentice, but the Khajiit J’Zargo was raised in Rorikstead, a settlement in the Reach, and doesn’t know much of Elsweyr. If anything, J’Zargo finds Alexander’s knowledge of his ancestral homeland insufferable.

    “J’Zargo came to become a Scholar of Illusion and Destruction,” the Khajiit growls, “if he had an interest in the goings on of Elsweyr, he would have snuck beyond the borders and made his way to the desert.”

    “Don’t you long for the warm sands?” Alexander prods. “Have you truly not tried moon sugar?”

    “This outlander will be the death of me.” By day three J’Zargo threatens to incinerate Alexander into a pile of ashes if that Breton offers another damn shard of moon sugar.

    After a week Alexander seeks Aaron to study Conjuration. Aaron is conveniently out on “personal business” in Falkreath, and will be in Solitude for a time. “Does he not think of the students that are interested in Conjuration?” Alexander asks Gil.

    “If I’m honest, Aaron has been at the College for a time; longer than Margarita, and yet he’s so terse and insufferable and aloof that I’m not sure Aaron’s ever had a student under his wing.” Gil ponders for a moment. “Now that I think on it, you’re the only apprentice that has expressed interest in Conjuration. Are you wanting to learn from someone so impatient with others?”

    “I feel that he was nice enough to Alexander. Is he truly that unpleasant?”

    “He unsettles me. He’s close enough where I would call him a friend, but distant enough where I’m sure I would have a Bound Dagger between my ribs if it meant to please the Daedric Lords he summons from.” Gil frowns. “Aaron keeps to himself. All I know is that he’s from Sentinel, a city in Hammerfell. He’s the only Redguard who studied Conjuration, because Redguards believe that summoning Aedra and Daedra is truly demonic-”

    “Isn’t it?”

    “Well, yes, but, more so. Redguards are known to banish people from their settlements for even learning about it. They believe you’re making deals with the Oblivion realm, and your soul is forfeit. Now that I think on it, I’m unsure if Aaron even _has_ a soul.”

    “Such harshness that comes from your words!”

    “Eh, Burr isn’t here, let a Mer have some fun.”

    Hercules is still making progress of Gil’s robe. With a war going on, shipments across the borders take longer, and with dragons roaming the skies, caravans and traders have a hard time braving the roads.

    “If you would just let me use wool from Ivarstead I would be near done,” Hercules complains as he weaves spider Daedra silk into the seams.. He dips the robe intermittently in golden dye from Vvardenfell, and lines the seams with void salts.

“Since you're still working on it perhaps you can stud it with Stahlrim,” Gil says.

“You're an Electromancer! That's counterintuitive!”

“Ah, but it would look nice!”

Alexander watches the methodical and artistic way Hercules weaves fabric together and combines enchantments to make it suitable for a mage on their travels. He is told his Apprentice robe is base and common, but in truth, it's the finest thing he's ever owned. He can appreciate the effort the robe maker put into it.

“An Orsimer making true magick with this finery, Alexander has never seen such wonderful craftsmanship,” he marvels.

“You sway me with your words, Alexander, but I'm sure there are far better seamstresses and tailors than I.”

“If there were, they would be here, doing an ultimate service.”

“In any case,” Gil cuts in. “I'll just have to live without my robe a moment longer. Alexander, there's something we must do.”

“For what, Master Lafayette?”

“We need to confirm something. Burr and I wanted to do it as soon as possible, but you've traveled far, and rested little, so we figured we would wait. On the morrow we will make way to High Hrothgar, at the summit of the Throat of the World.”

“What would we seek there?”

“A week hence Burr suggested you would seek the wisdom of the Greybeards, the oldest and highest coven of knowledge in the whole of Skyrim. Mayhaps you would learn more of the Shout you learned.” And Gil anticipates the look of apprehension on Alexander's face. He's traveled far and endured a lifetime of hardship in such a short time, and the idea of leaving the comforts of the College terrifies him. Skyrim is unsafe, and Alexander's abilities are still untested, but the promise of more knowledge, the trek seems worth it.

“Will Alexander return to the College?” The Breton asks, and he sounds as nervous as he looks.

“Let's pray that Kyne’s Grace is on our side and that Akatosh gives us protection. It is a three day's journey, if I can recall.”

“Hope you're prepared to brave a mountain.” Hercules adds.

“Will there be an accumulation of frost magick on this mountain?” Alexander asks.

“Frost magick?”

“It falls from the sky. A curse must plague Winterhold, if frost magick falls from the clouds so much so that Alexander stays in to remain warm.” Gil and Hercules exchange dumbfounded looks. From all the books and papers Gil has seen him read, he was certain Alexander knew that it was _snow_ , a natural occurence, especially in Skyrim.

He sighs. “You’ve much to learn, Apprentice.” is all he says.

 

崮

 

It is not quite dawn when Gil rouses Alexander from his slumber. The Breton didn’t make it to his bed last night, for he was draped over his desk, ink stains splotching his trousers and the imprint of the quill on his face.

“Meet me at the Winterhold stables in an hour’s time.” Gil murmurs. Alexander jolts awake and scrambles to get ready. The Breton at least had the time to brew some potions for the journey. He grabs his pack and sets it upon his shoulder, his Staff of Mending set on his back.

“That sword you traveled with, bent and worn it may be, it would serve on this trek.”

“Well,” Alexander had the ability to look sheepish and tired at the same time. “Alexander tried to enchant his sword, a base flame enchantment to give it some edge while in combat, but the iron, it was so brittle…”

“Ah, it disintegrated. No matter. You are an Apprentice, your spells will suffice.” Gil leaves Alexander to finish getting ready, and leaves the comforts of the College. It is still dark outside where the Magelights are still too bright; Gil squints to adjust to the brightness. Faralda isn’t awake yet to melt the snow piling on the bridge, so he casts a quick Incinerate spell to melt it. It is quiet in Winterhold, as it usually is, and in the early morn it is especially quiet. Even the beasts sleep, except for the distant silhouette of a dragon swooping down from the mountains towards the west, to the Pale Hold. Gil makes a note to take the eastern path.

Alexander makes it to Gil when he passes the Jarl’s longhouse. He is quiet, so quiet that Gil almost doesn’t notice him. He is startled when the Breton is suddenly behind him, but he recovers.

“Julianos preserve me! Warn a Mer when you do that!”

“Apologies, Master Lafayette,” Alexander whispers, and his voice sounds so muted in the air. “Alexander is naturally light-footed. All Khajiit are graced with the Sneak, and Alexander learned from the best to be just as sneaky.”

“Come now. We would take horses, but we would fare better to pass as nomadic spellcasters than ones who can afford a horse. Plus the proprietors are asleep as well.”

“Lead on. Alexander will go where you lead him.”

They leave Winterhold and take the eastern route towards the Shrine of Azura. The mountainside shields them from the oncoming freezing winds from the west. Lafayette would not have minded the silence, but Alexander felt the need to fill the quiet with stories of Elsweyr, and his displeasure with snow (he still has a hard time grasping that word, despite all else). “Rest assured, my Altmer friend, despite the warmth and comforts of the sands of Elsweyr, fire doesn’t rain down on the land. It is pleasant, and welcoming, even though the coarse sands will fill your boots. The frigid unpleasantness of Skyrim displeases him.”

“You’ll get used to it. Five years hence I traveled from the comforts of my home in the Summerset Isles. Do I miss it? My family, my betrothed, to be amongst my kin, a dull ache lingers in my heart still. And the constant dangers do not promise me another day. But to be at the summit of Atmora, to watch a revolution unfold, to meet some of the most gifted Wizards Tamriel has to offer-” Gil pauses, and smiles softly. “Skyrim is also my home.” He finishes.

Aside from a lone snowy sabre cat that lingered on the path, and the occasional ice wraith that Alexander gleefully melted with his flames, the journey was tame. It is late in the afternoon when they make it to the path of Mount Anthor.

“Ah, Mount Anthor,” Gil sighs. “An Alchemist’s refuge, and a shield from the northern winds. It is here where King Olaf One-Eye fought the dragon Numinex, where it is said its skull hangs in the halls of the Jarl’s home in Whiterun.” Alexander looks onward, alert and longing to go towards the altar. “What is it?”

“Do you hear that?”

“The wind? No, I hear nothing.”

“Chanting, Alexander hears-” Alexander climbs the icy steps towards the altar, and Gil has no choice but to follow. Alexander carefully approaches the great stone wall, curved to reveal etchings carved into the stone. Several meters above, the carving of a dragon head looms menacingly. Alexander’s gaze hardens, and he moves closer.

“What do you hear?” Gil can see the etchings in the stone, and despite all his knowledge, he can’t read any of it. Too old, too unknown of a language, and Margarita never offered to teach him what she knows. Alexander presses a palm to the cold stone, gently wiping the snow to reveal an etching hidden.

“Here,” he breathes quietly, so quiet that Gil strains to listen. “Alexander sees this word. It _glows_ to him.”

“I do not see a thing.”

“It’s glowing, would Alexander ever lie to his friends? The stone, it’s chanting.” He falls silent for a long moment, then his voice drops to a growl and Gil can’t understand him. “ _Het nok kapraan do Iglif Iiz-Sos, wo grind ok oblaan ni ko morokei vukein, nuz abst munax haalvut do liiv krasaar_.” Alexander tenses, and it almost seemed to pain him to retreat from the tableau, but he does.

“A light ensnared Alexander,” he turns to Gil. “Just as a light engulfed him when he slayed that dragon by chance. What does that mean?”

Gil tries to answer, but the sound of air whooshing dangerously above them. His heart quakes in fear when what little light from the sun is snuffed out. He has barely enough time to cast a quick Circle of Protection and a Dragonhide when the dragon approaches. Alexander brandishes his Staff and casts Ebonyflesh in haste.

It is not the great black dragon from Helgen, but the terror is all the same. An impressive wingspan with scales cold and hard as steel. Its leathery wings are grey as Gil’s outlook in surviving this day.

“We cannot hope to win this fight!” Gil cries, but Alexander glares up at the dragon. Said dragon opens its great maw, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth. A gale of icy wind is blasted towards them, and they both jump out of the way. Gil feels the extremity of the frigid wind blast, and no spell he has endured has ever felt so cold.

“ _Bromvenvik fen evenaar Muz_ ,” it roars, and encircles the altar, dodging spells that Alexander threw at it.

“We must do our all!” Alexander shouts, a small flash of triumph on his face when his fireball hits the dragon. Gil steels his nerves and remembers that he is the pride of the Lafayette House, the greatest Wizard of the Summerset Isles. What can he not do?

“Storms will sunder this beast!” Gil barks, summoning all his strongest spells and slinging Firestorm and Lightning Storm in rapid succession. He grabs his Staff of Lightning Storms from his back and aims with deadly precision. The dragon roars, obviously hurt, but bravely fights back, its frost breath flying towards Gil so fast he barely has time to cast a Frost Cloak on himself as a last ditch effort to shield himself.  He survived, but Akatosh prevail him, that _hurt_. He is thankful for Alexander keeping an eye and using his Staff of Mending to quickly heal him.

The battle goes on far too long, Gil thinks, even though he knows it couldn’t have been more than several moments. The dragon drops from the sky, shaking the ground, and moves to snap at Alexander with its fearsome teeth. Alexander quickly casts another Ebonyflesh on himself in haste. He shouts Fus, ripples of air blasting in the dragon’s face, and it stumbles. It growls when Gil’s deadly lightning based attacks hit its eyes. The dragon makes one final blast of frozen air, this time towards Alexander, and the Breton has no time to get out of the way and gets a faceful of the Shout.

“Alexander!” Gil cries, shooting spell after spell in a blaze of fury. But in a miracle of the Divines, just like like Alexander told him, he seemed to absorb it. Frost tinged his lips and collected on his goatee, but he looked relatively unharmed. If anything, he looks furious.

“To the hells of Namira you must go!” Alexander yells in a mad war cry, casting a Wall of Flames in the dragon’s face. The dragon roars, desperate to take to the skies once more, but its strength gives out, and in a long and keening roar that the whole of Winterhold surely heard, the dragon falls.

Gil is breathless, gulping for air as he waits for his magicka to replenish. He is unsure what he is more in awe of: that he survived, that he battled a dragon with only one other person, or when Alexander stands in front of the dragon’s body, it slowly crumbles away in a fiery light, scales and flesh drifting off into the air. A soft light encircles Alexander and a whirlwind surrounds him, entering him. Is he drawing power from the dragon’s body?

The light disappears in Alexander, and the Breton looks at his Altmer companion, dark eyes wide and questioning: what just happened?

“By the Nine Divines,” Gil breathes. “I cannot believe it. Margarita claimed that it was a myth, but, it must be truth.” Alexander is puzzled, but for once can’t find the words to say anything.

“You _are_ the Dragonborn, Alexander. You have the soul of a dragon.”


	2. Wind Guide You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greybeards! Assassins! more Shouts unlocked!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a warning near the end of the chapter there is a violent and disgusting excerpt where a woman is brutally murdered???? I'm sorry I did this to shove in a Dark brotherhood arc. if you don't like that I shall mark the excerpt as such **** it is brief, but it is still a horrific violent act against a woman, and I aim to never do that again in my writing.

“I know not what to do,” Gil keeps a considerable distance away from Alexander. “You're…”

Alexander stands in front of the bones of Bromvenvik, staring at the fearsome beast he just slain. Part of him looks prepared for the dragon to rise once more, part of him looks terrified, but Gil notices how Alexander's courage is the reason why they will live another day.

“Master Lafayette is surely one of the most fearsome spellcasters Alexander has ever seen,” Alexander's voice is shaky. He can't look at Gil. “Storms from your fingers… Lightning that immobilized the wyrm-beast. If Master Lafayette did not use his talents, then Alexander was sure to die today.” He looks up, finally, his entire body wracked in shivers. His hair is wind-blasted, frost lining the strands. A tinge of red blushes his face from the chill. “He is grateful to his companion saving him.”

“No, Alexander, you,” Gil starts towards the Breton. “ _You._ You saved us both. This gift, this slaying of dragons, a gift that _no one_ has. I may have aided you, but I did not save you. You did.”

“What will happen now?”

“Now? It is madness to remain here.” Gil warily looks at the bones. Even stripped of its flesh and scales, Bromvenvik is fearsome in death. He could fit himself comfortably in the ribs, if he so chose. “We must continue. My confirmation of your abilities only gives haste to my duty.” He avoids the carcass and bounds down the steps, turning when he realizes Alexander isn't following. “Quickly, Alexander. We must be off.” Alexander reluctantly turns away from the dragon and follows Gil. “We’ll make way into Windhelm, where I have residence there. A night braving the caves or the unknown of the night is not what I prefer.”

“Alexander will agree.” The Breton replies quietly, and remains in silence as dusk approaches. There are faint growls in the darkness of the trees that Gil recognizes as bears; he quickens his pace. He is not in the mood to deal with a bear.

With the aid of Masser and Secunda’s brilliant light lighting their way, they approach the gates of Windhelm. Gil sighs in relief; he and Alexander ran near nonstop in haste to reach the safety of the ancient capital. “Ah, Windhelm,” he sighs. “The first capital of Skyrim, and ancestral seat for all Nords. The throne of Ysgramor remains in the Palace of Kings, but-” Gil’s voice cuts into a snarl. “Imperial scum plague the valor of the throne now.”

“Prejudice poisons your words, Master Lafayette,” is the first thing that’s come out of Alexander’s mouth in hours.

Gil corrects himself. “No, not an Imperial. He is a Nord, but is the leader of the whole Imperial Legion, enemies of the Stormcloaks. Jarl George William Frederick, or Chancellor Frederick of the Imperial City, holds the throne, even though he is also Jarl of Solitude.”

“Alexander heard talk of war at the College, but he knows not enough of what side he should be on.”

Gil ponders for a moment as the Windhelm guard opens the great iron doors for them. “At first opinion, you would side with the Imperial Legion,” he begins. “The Stormcloaks have an underlying history of being nationalists and prejudiced to those who aren’t Nords, especially to the Mer folk. But despite that, it’s what they fight for that would make you side with them. Despite the prejudice, Skyrim is still open to the folk from other provinces, provided they prove no ill will. Historically they are wary of the Dunmer, but when they gifted the island of Solstheim to Morrowind, they are improving ties. Even with the Nord’s disdain towards magick, they built the College of Winterhold, and it is one of the last safe havens for mages in Tamriel. The Stormcloaks are doing what no other province or race has ever done: break ties with the tightening grip of the Imperial domination.”

Inside the walls of Windhelm, it felt more of a city than Winterhold, and it is. Dreary it may look, it boasts a port, smithies, a bazaar, and is home to high-ranking Nordic families. Alexander could feel the history of Windhelm in the air, and he sees why people choose to live here. But as Gil turns left towards Oengul War Anvil’s smithy, Alexander is distracted by an altercation in front of Candlehearth Hall, the primary inn. A man, clearly a brash, brawny, and inebriated Nord, harasses a lone Dunmer woman as she is leaving the inn. He is joined by another Nord, older and just as drunk, spewing vitriol and hatred towards an innocent woman.

“What’s a grey-skin doing outside her boundaries?” The first Nord sneers, making grabbing motion at the Dunmer’s skirts.

The Dunmer holds her head high, ignoring the racist remarks. “What? Can’t a woman enjoy a quiet drink all alone?”

“You grey-skins don’t belong here,” the Nord spits at the Dunmer’s feet, and she crinkles her nose at the sight. “But we Nords were nice enough to give you your own place. You should stay there.”

“I am free to go as I wish, Seabury. A drunken lout has no business telling me what to do.” The Dunmer makes to leave to the Grey Quarter, but Seabury grabs her arm and Alexander can feel the crushing grip he has on her.

“Watch your tongue, grey-skin,” Seabury hisses, and a bolt of fear courses through the Dunmer’s face. “Me and my friend could visit you later at night, show you and those filthy Morrowind maggots a thing about speaking back-” Seabury is interrupted by Alexander launching at him, a fist swinging square into his jaw. It’s enough for Seabury to stumble and release his grip on the Dunmer woman.

“What in the name of Talos-”

“That’s racist.” Alexander deadpans. Oengul War Anvil’s hammer strikes against his anvil mightily, sounding a high piercing _ding_ * in response.

“What is this?” Seabury recovers and turns his attention towards Alexander. “This tiny, puny man.”

“Alexander cannot allow such nasty things be said to an innocent woman.”

“Woman?” Seabury huffs. “That’s Imperial scum that plagues these streets. She is responsible for that greedy Jarl to desecrate the sanctity of Ysgramor’s throne!”

“I doubt that this one Mer is wholly responsible for that, George has many spies and conniving tricks at his disposal, but-” Gil tries to step in and dissipate the quarrel, but Seabury is even more enraged.

“Mer filth among us!” He shouts. “You, who wormed your way into Skyrim and your Thalmor friends-”

“How many times must I remind folk that I am _not_ with the Thalmor…”

“The Nord must apologize to the Dunmer lady,” Alexander interrupts. “Then Alexander will apologize to the man for punching him.”

“As if I would ever stoop so low for a grey-skin-” Alexander’s fist connects with Seabury’s face once more in lightning speed.

“Two apologies this one will give.”

“Alexander!” Gil snaps. “Leave this petty squabble at once!”

Seabury grabs Alexander by the shoulder. Seabury is a full head taller than Alexander, shoulders broad and face ruddy from drink and Alexander’s punches. He reeks of mead and his movements are slurred, but could beat anyone to death if he wanted to.

“You're a dead man,” he snarls, winding up for a punch square to Alexander's jaw. Alexander dodges the blow, but Seabury anticipates and his other fist slams into the Breton’s stomach. Alexander doubles over, barely dodging the other Nord trying to punch him in the back.

“Two swills teaming up against Alexander? Unjust this is; he won't last long.” He conjures flames to his fingertips, swinging a fist into the other Nord’s face. He hears a bone crack, most like the jaw, and when the Nord tries to keep his footing, Alexander swipes his foot and upends the other. A quick shot of the Flames spell catches the man's cloth shirt and he runs off, scrambling to get the flaming material off his body.

“You cheated!” Seabury snaps.

“Alexander was up against two drunkards on his lonesome. This is between you and him.”

“Alexander!” Gil calls. “Much as I loathe this man, I do not want to have the Windhelm guard haul you off to jail for casting magick in a bare handed brawl. In fact, I don't want you to submit to this brawl in the first pl-” he is interrupted by Seabury slamming his fist into Alexander's sternum, and Alexander jabbing his elbow into the Nord's ribcage. It is a savage squabble, unpretty and unkind, but since there's no weapons the guards look on.

Even with his unyielding bravery and agility, strength prevailed over Alexander as Seabury finds himself on top of the Breton, dealing blow after blow to his face.

“Yield,” Seabury spits. Alexander's face is swelling, cuts split his skin and blood seeps from his mouth. “C’mon, _yield_.”

“Yield,” Gil echoes. “This quarrel is not worth winning.”

Alexander lays in the snow and dirt, his left eye threatening to swell shut. He cranes his neck to spit blood from his mouth and grimaces.

“A Dragonborn does not yield,” he wheezes. “Alexander doesn't seem to know when to yield.” And before Seabury could even think to act, Alexander breathes deep and shouts “ _IIZ_.” Moisture surrounds Seabury’s body, and the air chills, worse than the coldest night in Windhelm. Before Seabury could scurry away, he is surrounded by a thick layer of ice, immobilizing him. Comically he falls down, forever hunched over and frozen.

“Alexander!” Gil grabs at him and helps him up. Alexander casts a quick Fast Healing, the wounds on his face closing and disappearing. The ice form holds, and Seabury could remain there for a time, but Alexander gives mercy and shoots a Flames spell at him. The ice melts in moments, and Seabury is a damp and weakened heap of Nord on the ground, wheezing and gasping for breath.

“Yield?” Alexander suggests, his tone light but his eyes promising that he won't hesitate to do it again.

Seabury yields.

崮

“Oh, what Alexander would give to have claws of the Khajiit!” He laments as Gil drags him away from Candlehearth Hall. “A deadly sharp edge he would have in any fight, that Seabury man would not have landed so many punches on him.”

“Have you lost your mind?” Gil wants to shriek. “Five minutes in Windhelm and you're picking fights! A complete different person who traveled far to attend the College.”

Alexander sobers and nods. “He asks for Master Lafayette’s forgiveness,” he says. “But Alexander could not stand by and just let that drunken swill curse that poor Dunmer woman.”

“I understand, but you'd be fighting half of the Windhelm populace if you're going to defend a Dunmer’s besmirched honor. I've learned to keep to myself and stay far away from the squabbles. I mislike it much, but I must rise above it all.” Gil gives Alexander a once over. “That Shout you used, came from the dragon of Mount Anthor?”

“The stone altar, for the wyrm-beast’s Shout was frost, not solid ice.”

Gil grunts in reply and leads Alexander to the far corners of the city. The houses are built cramped close together, yet they are bigger than the houses Alexander has seen back in Elsweyr. The house between the Clan Shatter-Shields and the former Temple of Talos is Gil's, as he unlocks the great door and ushers Alexander in. “Hjerim, of the Valunstrad quarter.” Despite the multiple sconces of torches lit, and the great fireplace in the sitting room roaring mightily, Hjerim is dim and drafty. The coziness of Alexander's alcove in Winterhold seems years away. A Nord in worn iron armor stokes the fire and fills a tankard with Black Briar Mead. “My housecarl, Calder.” He introduces the Nord when notices his Thane has returned and a companion is with him.

“Honored to see you again, my Thane.” Calder greets them. “It has been weeks since you've been back in Windhelm. Your company you left with, have they returned with you?”

“Alas, a group of twenty I went with, and all but two succumbed to the attacks of the dragons. The two, Salinor and Elyë, made their way to Markarth. I sought counsel from the Wizards in Winterhold.”

“Ill news you bring, my Thane. It is good to see you alive.”

“It is good to be alive. I am here for the night, and my companion and I will leave at dawn for High Hrothgar.”

“Will you ever seek rest?”

“As long as Akatosh gives me strength, I continue on. Come, let us sup together. The road here was perilous, and I've much to tell.” Gil sets to the larder and the foodstuffs, while Calder learns about Alexander. He, like everyone who meets him, finds a Breton who speaks like a Khajiit odd.

“The Argonians speak the Tamrielic Speech whilst they keep their Hist tongue,” Alexander replies. “While he was born and raised in the sands of Elsweyr, he learned his speech through the ones around him.”

“I half expect you to grow a mane and claws.” Calder remarks. Alexander admits he wishes it so. He does not talk of the city of Senchal or him surviving the Maelstrom, and strangely does not mention he could be a Dragonborn.

“Winterhold is no more than half a day's journey away,” Calder says. “And yet you look as if you just got fresh out of a brawl with a sabre cat.”

Gil pointedly looks at Alexander. “Should I tell him or should you?” he asks.

“He dueled a drunken brute who called himself Seabury,” Alexander replies simply, blinks once. “He put up quite a fight, but Alexander was quicker.” He allows a small smile.

“Spends a fortnight in Skyrim, been to a few Holds, and then this one within moments is throwing punches at people.” Gil scoffs. “He is truly unheard of. You seek peril, Hamilton.”

“That Nord was spewing foul words to a Dunmer woman, and Alexander couldn't just let that go unnoticed.”

“Prejudice is a horrid poison that seeps within most Nords,” Calder admits. “Centuries of Nords and Mer fighting, and it was only decades ago that we sought peace. But old habits, die hard.” he swallows a mouthful of mead. “With an Imperial Chancellor holding an ancient throne, and the White Gold Concordat forbidding us to worship Talos, and spies abound, and the _Thalmor_ , even I have my moments of suspicion. But Skyrim aims to be a free province, free from the crushing grip of the Imperial Legion, free from their enslavement of Argonians and Mer segregation-”

“There are slaves here?” Alexander is suddenly awash with rage. “Skyrim has _slaves_?” Gil silently reminds himself not to take Alexander to the docks.

“The Mane forbade slavery in all of Elsweyr,” Alexander is speaking in clipped, harsh tones that sound more pronounced with his accent. “Even the long standing armistice with the Argonians did the Khajiit end. In Senchal the port callers and deckhands were paid fairly and considered free. Who would allow such a thing?”

“Did you just say you were from Senchal?”

“Alexander has traveled far, he would benefit from sleep.” Gil cuts in. He waves a hand, soft shimmering mist coming from his fingers. A quick Calm spell to alleviate Alexander’s fury. “I have supped enough and have an errand to run. Alexander, you would benefit from an evening of ease. At dawn we make for High Hrothgar.”

Alexander looks to protest, but the power of Gil’s spell subdues him. “Rest from the journey would please this one,” he says softly. “Alexander feels overwhelmed by the fight and the trek, and tomorrow only promises more. He bids you all a good evening.” Calder shows him the way to Hjerim’s guest room as Gil fetches paper and quill. He scrawls a quick note to Hercules and Margarita and leaves his house, heading back to Candlehearth Hall. Seabury is gone, praise the Divines, and Gil enters the inn and searches for the courier. The courier is an eager young Nord, waiting anxiously for someone to come and offer his services. He sees Gil come forward and smiles brightly.

“Master Altmer,” he greets. “Come to send something off?”

“Hand this to the Master-Wizard of the College of Winterhold,” Gil answers by hand him the roll of paper. “There will be a Gatekeeper, another Altmer like myself, named Faralda. Insist that this must be handed to _only_ the Master-Wizard.” He slips a few extra Septims to the courier. “I pray that she doesn’t give you any trouble.”

“Looks like that's it. I'll be off.” The courier is off into the late night without hesitation. Gil returns to Hjerim, fatigue getting a hold of him. He extinguishes the fires and Hjerim’s gloom deepens.

崮

Alexander is awake before Gil is, and is already asking questions as soon as they leave Hjerim.

“Ser Calder isn't joining us?”

“I've not the mind to ask him. He would have no choice but to agree, but guarding Hjerim is where I leave him. No, he's not a slave,” he adds at Alexander’s expression.

Alexander is bubbling with questions as they leave the Valunstrad quarter, and Gil thinks it's too early for these questions.

“Did you not sleep?”

“Alexander slept enough. The hex Master Lafayette put upon him was effective.”

“Come now, we make for Ivarstead, and then the climb to High Hrothgar.” The doors to Eastmarch open and Alexander is asking more questions.

“How did you acquire Hjerim?”

Gil sighs. “When Jarl Frederick took over Windhelm, he gave it to me as a gift.”

“Are you friends?”

“By the Nine Divines, no. It’s a long story.” Gil sighs once more.

“The journey ahead will give you ample time to tell it.”

“My illustrious House is close friends with the Thalmor, who are close allies of the Imperial Legion, who are punishing the people of Skyrim from wanting to break free of its chains. My name carries a great deal of importance; nigh everyone knows of me. But near all know that House Lafayette is with the enemy, and one quiet defector is not going to sway others. My loyalty and love to my House shouldn’t be questioned, but my heart and my passions for freedom and an end to slavery across Tamriel will not stop my support for the Stormcloaks.  When the Imperial Legion took over Morvunskar, a key territory for the Stormcloaks, Jarl Frederick took the opportunity to declare hold of the ancient capital of Windhelm. He is hated by many, for the whole of Windhelm are Stormcloaks, but he is the ruler, and they are powerless to do anything. I was in Whiterun with Jarl Washington, when I was summoned to Windhelm by an escort. Could I have refused? I could have, but Jarl Washington insisted I obey, for there was no telling what I would be facing alone.”

“Master Lafayette is a capable Wizard and a terrifying Electromancer,” Alexander says. “He would have made short work of the Jarl if he needed to.”

“What would I look like, a killer of rulers and a betrayer to my House?”

“To the people of Skyrim? A hero.” Gil looks at Alexander, shakes his head as they pass the entrance to Steamscorch Mine. “But Alexander understands why you would stay your hand at killing the Jarl. “Alexander? He is willing to fight for the good of all, even at the expense of himself. He is impetuous at times, hot-blooded from being raised in the sands of Elsweyr. He and Death are very good friends, and dying does not fear him. But taking a person’s life?” Alexander shakes his head and slows his pace to a walk. “He has never killed, that he has not, a being at least. When he kills beasts and wraiths he does it without trepidation, for he sees his life as in need of protection. But a person? He is unwilling to kill even the most base of criminals and enemies. He rues the day when he is forced to do so.”

“You haven’t crossed paths with bandits nor highwaymen on your travels?” Gil asks. Alexander shakes his head. “The caravan he traveled with did, many a time, but he was not the one who put the enemies to the sword. He healed the sick, mended the wounded, buried the dead. It is why he went to the College to learn Restoration.”

They fall into silence, passing Kynesgrove without stopping. Alexander pauses, just enough for Gil to begin to question, but Alexander shakes his head and continues.

“He thought he heard… Nevermind.”

“If you insist.” A Spriggan nest lay a few miles past Kynesgrove, and the two avoided conflict with the wooden spirits. It is the late afternoon when they cross Darkwater River and into the borders of the Rift Hold. Gil suggests they rest a while. The sun is low and stars are beginning to twinkle. Gil offers to hunt a deer for food, and Alexander agrees as he sets up camp. Moments later, just enough where Alexander is starting to grow worried over Gil’s absence- mayhaps the Altmer ran into trouble- when the Wizard is dragging a heavy deer carcass through the thicket of the brush.

“Do you need help with that?”

“I got it.” Gil sets the carcass by a rock in a huff and begins carving sections off in savage motions. His borrowed robes are stained with dark blood, and it reeks throughout their makeshift camp. When Gil is done slicing hunks of meat, he skewers them with a branch and sets it over the roaring fire Alexander created. When he realizes he’s covered in blood, his nose wrinkles.

“Leave it to me to sodden the enchantments of Mulligan’s finery,” he gripes. “And I was supposed to return this when we returned undamaged. Ah, the perils of travel.” Alexander leans back on the stone and gazes at the stars, takes in Masser and Secunda’s brilliance outshining the setting sun. The silhouette of The Throat of the World is stark against the varying shades of the sky. The faint roar of a dragon, leagues away from the travelers, is near inaudible, yet Alexander’s grip on his staff tightens.

A sudden booming Shout sounds from the mountain, an explosion of sound that startles Gil into dropping his venison into the dirt and readying lightning to his fingers. Alexander is alert and ready to fight, his heart slamming against his ribs. The Shout continues, long and percussive, almost sounding like words.

Alexander’s nerves settle. “It is,” he begins. “A call? A call to Alexander.” The Shout ends after a time, tapering off into a guttural groan. The forest is swallowed by silence. Gil can hear his blood rushing through his body.

Alexander’s voice falls into an excited whisper. “ _Dovahkiin_ , it said. Mirmulnir, the other dragon, said this to Alexander. _Dovahkiin_. What does that mean?”

Gil doesn’t face Alexander, rather gives his gaze to the mountains. “The Greybeards must call to you,” he answers. His hunger is forgotten. “We must hurry to Ivarstead.”

崮

Ivarstead is shrouded in pitch black darkness; the only way Gil knows they made it is a guard eventually brandishing a torch, illuminating the crest of the Rift Hold on his cuirass. Ivarstead is no more than a stable, an inn, a mill, and several farmhouses, but felt more of a city than Winterhold. Even in the night, there’s a gentle warmth in the air that reminds Alexander of Elsweyr.

“I know you would seek rest,” Gil says. “But we’ve kept the Greybeards waiting long enough.”

“He understands,” Alexander quietly replies. “He can go a little further.” Their eyes adjust to the dark, and cross a bridge by a collapsed house. The path eventually leads to worn stone steps, where Gil stops at the first one.

“Seven thousand steps, this pilgrimage is,” Gil begins. “We’d not haste ourselves, but the trek is fraught with wolves and frost trolls, and should you fall-” he falters. “Come now.” The steps are faded and shallow from centuries of wayfarers seeking prayer atop the summit, yet Alexander feels the strain of the climb well enough. The stairs wind and twist, narrow to where Gil has to go first and Alexander follows, and some where they have sunken into the mountain altogether. The wind, once gentle, is growing into a tempest as they climb higher. Alexander clutches to the mountainside as a gust bellows and frost blasts in their faces.

“The climb of the Jerall Mountains was not this perilous, he thinks,” he yells over the wind. If Gil heard him, he chose not to answer. Gil’s pace slows as they are hundreds of feet up; Alexander chances to look aside and sees Ivarstead below- the height is dizzying enough to where Alexander almost stumbles but recovers. The threat of falling is enough to keep his wits sharp. “Mara keep him,” he wheezes.

When the pair reach a wayshrine of Arkay, the steep climb evens out. Gil suggests they rest for a while and Alexander’s legs are screaming in agony. He plops down in the snow and buries his legs in the frost for temporary relief. “Frost magick, do your wonder to his legs!” He cries.

“ _Snow_ , Alexander,” Gil corrects as he sits by the wayshrine. “We passed the wayshrine of Akatosh, even with the light of Masser and Secunda we failed to spot it. Arkay’s blessings are true enough. We will pass Dibella next, then Kynareth, Mara, Stendarr, Zenithar, and Talos.”

“No Julianos?”

“He is a god worshipped by Wizards and Necromancers, things that Nords find a nuisance since the earliest times. They thought it unwise to put a shrine for him here.” Gil’s eyelids are heavy. “We’ve covered much ground today. It’s madness to continue this trek in the darkness. At daybreak we continue.” If Alexander echoed his grievances, his reply was lost to the muffling of the snow. Sleep overcomes him and he is off into a listless, dreamless state.

The glare of the sunlight reflecting off the snow wakes up Alexander. The cold air and snow have rendered his limbs frozen; it takes a moment to summon the flames to return warmth to his body. “Praise Mara we survived the night; ere we fell into careless slumber without a fire!”

“Come now, we’ve more to climb.” They receive their blessings from Arkay and continue to brave the trek. The snow is thicker and plentiful, and Alexander’s boots are filled with the stuff. He casts the Flame Cloak spell in a feeble attempt to shield against the increasingly bitter chill.

Early in the morning they continued their journey, and it wasn’t until noonday when they cross the stone bridge to the ancient monastery of High Hrothgar. It is a grim and imposing temple of frozen stone and iron. The very sight stops Alexander in his tracks, and he feels he doesn’t belong. Gooseflesh hardens his skin, and it’s not just from the chill. Gil and Alexander stand at the entrance in silence. What do they do now?

“The temple would give a minor relief to the frozen winds, if you would care to get warm.” Gil says after a time of silence. “Well then, let’s remember why we left the safety of the College.” They climb the stone steps of the monastery, and it takes both Alexander and Gil to pull the heavy iron door open.

The temple is dark, with few wall sconces providing feeble light. The air is cold; it’s not enough of a difference than outside. The sound of their footfalls are the only noises in the temple. It’s far too quiet, and too empty.

Gil’s ears prick and he whips his head to a figure shuffling towards them. The figure’s movements are slow and methodical, yet his stature is proud and true. The figure is an old Nord, older than Gil has ever seen.

“So, the Dragonborn appears,” the Nord’s voice is airy and distant like the wind, yet piercing and chilling as the frost. Alexander gulps. “At this moment at the turning of the age.”

There is a long pause, enough to where Gil thinks that if no one says anything, the Greybeard will move on as if no one was there.

“Alexander has come to answer your summons,” the Breton bows. “The Dragonborn, what is that? What does this mean for him?”

“We will answer that in due time, but now, come. Let us taste of your voice.” The Greybeard stands ready, and when Alexander is unsure what to do next, the Greybeard takes initiative by shouting _FUS_ at him. Both Gil and Alexander are thrown off their feet by the sudden shout.

“Let us greet like proper Masters of the Voice,” the Greybeard says calmly as Alexander stands up.

“ _FUS_ ,” Alexander shouts at him, and the Greybeard stumbles as the air pushes him back. When he regains his footing, Alexander can see a small smile on the Greybeard’s face.

“I am Arngeir, I speak for the Greybeards,” Arngeir bows at Alexander. “We are honored to have the Dragonborn back in the hallowed halls of High Hrothgar. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny.”

崮

 

“You have shown you are the Dragonborn,” Arngeir continues as he leads Alexander and Gil to the heart of High Hrothgar- a barren room void of decoration and furnishing. “You have an inborn gift. No doubt, the appearance of a Dragonborn at this time is not an accident. Your destiny is surely bound up with the return of the dragons. You must focus your Voice, and then your path would be made clear.”

“What destiny lies before Alexander?” The Breton asks.

“Is that your name, Alexander?”

“Yes. Alexander Hamilton of Senchal, he is called. He traveled long and far to seek more knowledge of Restoration, and he left the comforts of the College to learn more of this Shout.”

Arngeir is silent for a moment, when he speaks again, he sounds wistful. “Alexander, when translated into the Dragon Speech, it is _Alun_ _Zaan_ _Dah_. Your name holds power in the ancient tongue.”

“Then this newfound gift wasn't discovered by chance,” Gil says. “He was literally born into this power; his name says so?”

“Mayhaps. There was Tsun of the olden times, and Gormlaith, and Ysmir, all Dragonborn whose names are ancient Nordic, but there's no distinct translation to Dragon Speech. Alexander is the first person in eons to have a name derived from the language. Tell me, do you come from a noble house?”

“His mother was an Alchemist, the shop she ran was her own. His father is more fable than fact. Alexander has never had more than a hundred Septims to his name.”

“Baseborn,” Arngeir remarks, not unkindly. “A hero in the making, perhaps, to see to the decimation of the dragons. Or to seek piety and boundless knowledge and understanding of the Way of the Voice, like our old Master Jurgen Windcaller.”

“Alexander left the College of Winterhold to learn more of the Voice, but his heart still lies in devoting his life to healing the sick and infirmed.” Alexander states, and for the first time Gil notices Alexander’s disdain. “A Dragonborn he may be, but his promise to be a healer must be kept. He cannot forsake his wants.”

“There will be a time to fulfill that wish, Alexander,” Gil tries to offer counsel. “A healer you already are, for you have mended my wounds in battle. But this gift you have, and the Greybeards’ willingness to guide you in the Way of the Voice, you cannot push it aside. These are dire times, and we need to think of the future of Skyrim; the future of Tamriel.”

Alexander frowns, looks hard at the Altmer. Gil can see the myriad of questions in Alexander’s eyes: what is my destiny? Where do I go from here? Will I ever go back to the College? And the most explicit question that Gil couldn’t answer: What is happening?

“Come,” Arngeir says softly. “The whole of the Greybeards would like to extend our knowledge of the Unrelenting Force- _FUS,_ and _RO,_ to you.” And Arngeir turns away towards the rear of the monastery. His presence resonates peace yet authority, and despite his reluctance Alexander goes to follow, but turns at the last minute to Gil.

“Will you come?” Alexander asks.

“I fear I would be intruding on such a sacred lesson. I am not a Dragonborn, and my place isn’t here.” Gil feels uneasy. Does he just leave Alexander here? The idea of leaving for Ivarstead alone sounds depressing. “Learn, learn all there is to know, for you are more than just a healer. That mind of yours has shown extraordinary capabilities, and this, mislike it you do, is a high honor. You are a Dragonborn, mayhaps the last. You must answer the cry for salvation, my friend.”

Alexander looks back to the Greybeards assembling, and they're watching him. “Do not leave him,” Alexander replies quietly. “Master Lafayette-- Gil-- is one of the few friends he's had in so long. He is afraid to be alone.”

“You won't be alone,” Gil makes his way to the entrance. “You will find their counsel rewarding and discover camaraderie between them. But I must make my way back. We will meet again, I hope.” And Gil is out of of Alexander’s sight before he could utter more protests.

崮

 

Gil doesn’t leave High Hrothgar immediately; there's a violent snowstorm taking form as he makes his way to leave. The visibility is low, and a trek down in such thick swirls promises a certain demise. He's not too inconvenienced, he traveled all this way and to turn back so quickly feels a waste. Plus, he can’t get Alexander’s reaction to being alone out of his thoughts. It's difficult to forget that Alexander was young when he survived multiple near-death experiences, and is still young as he narrowly avoided execution, survived desertion of his caravan, and discovered he held an incredible power. It was too much to take in all at once, and if Gil were Alexander, he would have reacted the same.

He sits at the front of High Hrothgar, watching a Frost troll stumble into view. Tangling with such a beast in this weather is madness; he'll wait for clearer skies. He leans against an unlit brazier, casting a quick Fireball to light it. Feeble warmth begins to engulf him, make him a little drowsy. A little rest wouldn't hurt, he thinks, and at that Gil gets comfortable and dozes  off.

When he awakens, it is near dusk, and the frost troll is nearby still, but the weather is clear. No use camping out in front of the temple; he'll make for Windhelm once more. His ears prick at the sound of the heavy doors groaning open and he turns, surprised to see Alexander coming out.

“Do not tell me you have finished your training, “ Gil is rife with disbelief.

“That he is not, but he has learned more.” Alexander bounds down the steps. “The wise Greybeards have suggested that Alexander take the path of Jurgen Windcaller, to seek peace and wisdom of the Voice, but in order to do that, he must make a pilgrimage to the ancient dragon tableaus that are scattered across Skyrim.” He turns to Gil, shrugging. “If Alexander must do what is right, then so he shall.”

“Will you return to High Hrothgar?”

“He is duty-bound to do so, but now, he would seek the companionship of his Altmer friend as they make their way through Skyrim.” Alexander looks a slight defeated. “His quest is long, and fraught with peril, as the Greybeards have warned him. It could take months, years; mayhaps the end of the war will come before Alexander has truly sought all knowledge of the Voice. And he realizes,” he lets out a heavy sigh, “his dreams to heal all the sick and wounded will most like never come to fruition. His studies at the College of Winterhold will be indefinitely suspended. Come, Alexander seeks the warmth of below the mountain.” Alexander marches off into the heavy snow towards the bridge.

“There’s a frost troll though,” Gil points to the white beast atop a boulder, “and I could defeat, sure, but I’ve not the heart to fight it. Alexander sees the troll, then turns to look at Gil again. He looks back at the troll; back to Gil. He frowns as he quietly bounds to the troll, as stealthily as he can. The troll faces the long and fatal drop of the mountain, and if trolls had expressions (or thought) Gil would think that the troll looks… _contemplative_?

Before he could protest to Alexander’s actions, the Breton is crouched behind the troll. How the troll hasn’t turned around is beyond him, and Gil fears he will have to tangle with a beast on his companion’s behalf. But his fears are dashed as Alexander takes a breath and shouts “ _FUS RO DAH!”_ , a long and mighty Shout that blew snow from the ground and shook the very earth beneath Gil’s feet. The troll never knew what hit it, for the beast is suddenly sailing through the air off the boulder and down the mountain top.*

“Alexander!” Gil yells. Alexander turns to him, and even in the distance, Gil can see the Breton is alight with glee.

“Let’s be off, my noble friend!” Alexander cries. Gil shakes his head and hurries off towards him; he’ll get an explanation later. When he regroups with Alexander, he sees a slight jubilance on the Breton’s face that almost makes him look carefree. They are making excellent headway down the mountain when Alexander starts.

“He nearly forgot,” he says. “Have you heard of the name Alduin?”

崮

 

Samuel Seabury is still awash with unbridled rage and fury over being beaten by some scrawny Breton who speaks odd, that he goes to Hjerim, battered warhammer in his hand, to smash that hexin’ whoreson to bits. He’s certain the fellow Stormcloaks would rally to his defense and the even the Jarl would be powerless to throw him in jail to rot. He’s going to teach that whoreson Reachman the ills of messing with the hardy folk of Skyrim: by smashing his brains in the snow. But when he makes his way to Hjerim, he is brusquely told off by that hypnotized Housecarl.

“Thane Lafayette and his companion Alexander Hamilton have left Windhelm,” Calder states, sword at the ready. “You have no business here. I suggest you leave.”

“You’re hiding them, I know it.”

“They left in the early hours of dawn for High Hrothgar. Collect your wits and leave before I gut you like a slaughterfish.” Seabury is still unconvinced, but he’s not going to fight a fellow Nord, even if that Nord is a sorry hypnotized lapdog.

High Hrothgar? The ancient pilgrimage sacred to all Nords? How dare those Imperial whoresons plague the sanctity of the holy mountain? Seabury’s fury is refreshed, almost enough to hop on a wagon to Ivarstead and slay the two himself. Alexander, he most likely will kill with little effort, even with all that hexing he’s got, but that Lafayette wizard is another level of difficulty, one that will certainly end in Seabury’s demise. That Mer can summon storms from his fingers, so he’s told. But that damn Breton needs to die, so much so that Seabury clutches his Amulet of Talos in desperate prayer that Alexander stumbles off the mountain and dashes his brains against the stones, or trolls tear his limbs apart, or bandits slit his throat in his sleep. But prayer is not enough, he either needs to personally choke the life out of that whoreson with his own hands, or-

Or. Seabury finds himself in Calixto’s House of Curiosities, an odds and ends shop and museum just before the Grey Quarter. He finds a small book, untitled, but with the faded mark of a black handprint on the leather face. Seabury strokes the black handprint, feels a shiver of fear and excitement down his spine. He flips through the pages, and sees what he needs to do.

_In order to summon the Dark Brotherhood, the sacrifice of a being is needed as token for the Dread Father. A dagger of steel make, lain at the front of the skull of the slain and the heart. The flesh of the victim is needed to satiate the infinite Void. Nightshade is the fragrance to entice the Night Mother, and a halo of candles to embrace the offering. Then you must pray: “Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear.”_

Seabury’s mind is made up the moment he reads the prayer, and he gives Calixto Corrium five Septims for the book. He hurries to the Stone Quarter for a sprig of Nightshade. The dagger he has already, and a weathered skull sits on his shelf at home. The victim? He needs to kill in order to have a contract on someone? Damn the Black Sacrament! But he’s already consumed by this idea; he’s gotta follow through.

*******

He’s back in the Grey Quarter at night, and it’s easy to find that Dunmer woman he was harassing earlier. The Windhelm guard don’t come to the Grey Quarter often, and if she screamed, her cries will be drowned by the noise of the harbor. Suvaris Atheron, that woman who started all this mess. She won’t be missed. She’s walking out of a cornerclub towards her residence where Seabury catches her, dagger sinking into her neck before she could utter out a cry for help. He drags her dying body through the slums and back alleys of Windhelm, where guards are few and blind to his actions. When he makes it to his house, Suvaris is dead and blood slowing to a thick ooze. They should warn about the sudden spurt of blood spraying like a hose. He makes it to his home in a hurry and gets to the task of dissecting her. Her heart comes out easy enough, but taking out bones and slicing sections of flesh was more time-consuming than he gathered. His grip is slippery with blood and the candles are difficult to light as he arranges the ritual. The scent of Nightshade is drowned in the stench of iron.

Seabury steps back and looks at his work. It’s crude, but will serve. There’s a tiny voice in his mind screaming to take this all back, what have you gotten yourself into Samuel, but, there’s no turning back now.

Taking the dagger, Seabury stabs the Nightshade into the flesh, and he almost forgets the words, but he gets it: “ _Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear._ ” He expects an agent of the Dark Brotherhood to come at an instant, as quick as Alexander summoned ice to encase him in. Nothing. He does the chant again. Still nothing. So he waits an hour, and checks the dark corners of his lodgings for an assassin making his way into the place. Nothing that Seabury can sense. _Where is the ploughin’ assassin?_ He thinks. _How long do I have to do this? What if the stories of the Dark Brotherhood being destroyed is true?_ That thought is enough for Seabury to rush to his cupboard and chug a warm bottle of beer to drown his fears in drink. The beer tastes of blood, and Seabury spits it out. No use worrying over a waste of killing someone, he’s going to continue.

*******

He chants the prayer in intervals, and he’s at it for hours, longer than that, for the sun has risen and sank into dusk as he continues this incessant prayer. How many more times does he have to do this? Exhaustion creeps behind his eyes, and his movements are a jumbled mess, and the dagger is worn to a dull tip. It is night again, and he is unsure whether to continue. Maybe if he sleeps, he’ll get an answer?

He’s too tired and mad with redundancy to notice the sudden draft of cold air filling his lodgings, and the growing darkness that makes his candles dim even more. He turns, and backs into the effigy in fear.

“It _worked_ ,” Seabury breathes.

崮

 

John gets the sensation of a spectral hand guiding him to Windhelm in the early morning where the sunlight is not yet a nuisance to him. Another person has called upon the services of the Night Mother, and it’s up to John to represent the Dark Brotherhood. It’s been a week since he’s had a contract, and he was starting to grow bored. He leaves the dark comforts of the Sanctuary in the woods of Falkreath and secretly hitches a ride on a wagon. The horse senses a shadowy passenger, unwelcome on the wagon, and it whickers in protest, but the wagon driver thinks it’s the horse being afraid of the dark, and digs a spur into its haunch. “Get a move on, Ergird, we make for Windhelm.” The horse is helpless to follow command, and the wagon is wheeled off into the wild. John is hanging underneath the wagon as unsuspecting travelers sit above none the wiser. This isn’t the first time he’s hitched a ride like this. They make it to Whiterun in good time; no dragons swooping to eat the travelers, wolves keep at bay, no bandits around, so when they rest at the Whiterun stables, John slinks off while everyone else is focused on getting something to eat. He’s hungry as well, but he can eat later. He can make it to Windhelm on foot from here, he’s done it before. The sunlight is glaring bright enough where John has to pull the shrouded cowl of his armor well over his head. It’s one of those unseasonably warm days, as it is the height of Last Seed, and any sensible man would shed his armor and embrace the warmth, and the Bosmer part of him begs to bound free and traipse the treetops in the sunlight. But he squares away that desire; it’s not worth it, he thinks, and continues on to Windhelm. There’s a small gang of robbers on the road that demand a hefty sum of two hundred Septims for “safe crossings” on the bridge, and John has the coin, but after a brief once over of the gang and their make of weapons, he figures an array of arrows into their heads is sufficient payment.

The fight lasts moments, the gang is no match for John as he swiftly shoots arrow after arrow with deadly accuracy. A bandit tries to get the jump on him from a behind, but the bandit doesn’t anticipate John whirling a blade, wielding it with blinding quickness. The bandit’s eyes are filled with fear as he looks into John’s inscrutable gaze, and it’s the last thing he sees as the light leaves his eyes. The bandits lay in an ungracious heap, and John rifles through their pockets (someone is going to do it anyway so why not) and continues on to Windhelm.

Dusk settles as he makes it to the gates of Windhelm. He could get a guard to open the gates for him, but it’s more fun to the scale the walls of the city, and that’s what he does. The Black Hand guides him through the dark streets of Whiterun, to the Stone Quarter. A small unassuming barracks of sorts for deckhands and drunkards is what he is guided to, and he makes short work of the lock on the door. 

A guard walks past him, unaware. The room is sparse in furnishing and it reeks of blood. In the corner there’s a Nord covered in dried blood, tiredly stabbing at a desiccated corpse of a Dunmer woman and mumbling the Black Sacrament. _Good luck getting payment out of this one_ , John gripes.

The Nord eventually notices him, and jumps in terror that John finds pleasure in. “It _worked_ ,” he breathes, and drops his dagger with a clang.

 _Let’s make short work out of this one_. “Let me guess, some drunken lout you lost a bet to you want me to kill?” John asks, and is surprised when the Nord is flummoxed for a moment, only to vigorously shake his head.

“No,” the Nord slurs from exhaustion. “Damn it all, I’ve been praying to your blasted Night Mother for an entire day!”

“But hey, it worked, did it not? Now who are you wishing to die?”

Seabury gets a hold of himself for a moment, working a serious expression on his sleep-addled face. “Right. The contract. You’ve noticed the presence of Imperial dogs in Windhelm, no?”

“Oh, really?” Being half Imperial, half Bosmer, John isn’t used to slurs against him, but this is technically still Stormcloak territory. He lets it go this time.

“There’s this whoreson who goes by Alexander Hamilton, a Breton who looks like a Reachman, but speaks like those slinky furheads that sell conjures and curses.”

“Furheads?”

“Khajiit, or more Imperial spies. He talks like a Khajiit. He embarrassed me in front of others, and casted hexes in a fair fistfight. He is a cheat, a swindler, a freak, and I want him dead.” John stares at him, unblinking, and Seabury makes note not to look the assassin in the eyes.

“And where might I find this Khajiit pretender, if I may ask?”

“Alas, he and his Thalmor dog friend Lafayette made way to Ivarstead, and may be on the move again. He’s a tiny dark-haired Breton, who casts flame spells, and,” Seabury grimaces. “Briefly called himself the Dragonborn. Look for him.”

“Ivarstead, you say?”

“Yes, now, go to it.” John raises an eyebrow at the command, and notices how nervous Seabury is. When unarmored and unarmed, John isn’t much to look at. Tall he may be, he looks unable to defend himself. But he’s beyond agile and resilient, silent as death and fearsome as the Void. He is the few prides of the Dark Brotherhood.

“You know what I am,” John begins, voice cold as steel against a throat. “You know what I am capable of doing, to you, and no one will notice you were gone. Vanished into air, I can make you. Remember that.” Seabury tries to match the stare, but he falters. John takes pride in having a terrifying gaze. The Nord’s frantic nodding is a sufficient answer. John turns away and leaves the lodgings, into the free night air of Windhelm. He removes his cowl and smiles at Masser and Secunda, the true light he’s loved all along. Scaling the walls once more, John heads to the docks where the Argonians are burning the midnight oil. He slinks past them unnoticed, and commandeers a small boat on the farthest corner of the dock. He can take the White River to Darkwater, and there he can make a short passage to Ivarstead, where he’ll at least hear word of a Khajiit-pretending Breton who slings flame spells and is, what did that Nord saying? Dragonborn? That narrows it down.

He casts sail of the boat, and the craft cuts through the ice chunks of the river in silence. By the time the Argonians know of a missing craft, John is halfway to Ivarstead. When the boat makes it past the ice blockages, he lies down on the floor of the boat and gazes up at the stars.

When he makes it to the waters by Temba Wide-Arm’s Mill, it is daybreak and John glares at the sun. He squints as he struggles to put his cowl back on and shield himself from the light. He jumps out of the boat and into the freezing water, and he appreciates the cold embrace of the water against his armor. Silently climbing out of the river, he makes his way through the unremarkable town of Ivarstead. He’ll gain information from Vilmeyr Inn, most like.

There’s a courier running across the bridge to the inn, and as he makes it to the door, an Altmer dressed in bloodied robes steps out. He is dressed too poorly for his dignified air. A Staff of Lightning Storms is on his back. The courier seems to know him, for he comes to the elf and hands him a letter. The courier leaves, heading to Riften, and the Altmer reads the note.

“Praise Akatosh!” The Altmer seems happy. “Mulligan has fixed my robe. He and Margarita are off to Solitude and will have it there.” Who is he talking to? Then another person emerges from the door and John just knows, his heart just knows, that this is his target.

“Found you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *- Alexander Hamilton would be excellent at CinemaSins  
> *- Things to do in Skyrim: Psst Psst FUUUUUUUUUCK  
> hey look it's John. half Bosmer (Wood Elf), half Imperial
> 
> okay there's genuinely another part to this, but this chapter is so long like please send help so I have to put it in chapter 3. Angelica and Washington will be in the next part
> 
> Masser and Secunda are moons apropo


	3. Caught off Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John stalks his target; Alexander finds another Shout, and the author doesn't believe in consistent updating

“A welcome sight to see them again,” Gil says as he and Alexander make for a wagon back to Windhelm. “A few days our journey's been, yet it feels longer since we've seen them. And we've much to tell.” Gil gives the man the fare for the ride and sits on the wagon; Alexander following suit. “I can't wait to see the look of disbelief on Margarita’s face when you tell her you're Dragonborn.”

“Is it a thing he must boast about?” Alexander asks.

“When she, one of the most gifted wizards of Skyrim, has said that the Dragonborn myth is no more than a story, then yes, I would implore you to boast.”

“If he must,” Alexander looks onward to the river, confused at a boat drifting off deeper into the Rift. “A shame to let a boat go unmanned,” he says. The wagon takes on four more passengers, and they are off without any delay.

“Will this wagon continue to Solitude?” Gil asks.

The driver shakes his head. “I go no further than Windhelm,” he says. “The western skies are plagued with dragons. It's a fool's sure death if we were to go there.”

“Ah, then perhaps we will go by foot, something I'd rather not do so soon.” Gil sighs.

“If we are not going to up a mountain again, Alexander would not mind walking. Seeing the whole of Skyrim by his own pace, ‘twould please him.” He looks out to Ivarstead behind them as its sight gets further away. A shadowy black form darts behind trees, but he pays no mind to it; it’s not a dragon. “Why is the Master-Wizard going to Solitude?”

Gil pulls out the note from the courier with a flourish. “Hercules is set to see the finery of an Elven seamstress from the Summerset Isles, and Margarita is off to see her sister. We'll meet them at the gates of Windhelm and continue there.” Alexander nods, idly tracing the edges of his amulet. The ride is silent as they travel back to Kynesgrove without incident, and only when Alexander sees the shadowy figure behind a farmhouse does he speak again.

“There's something following us.” The last word twists into unease. Mayhaps it's just the trick of the light; the figure is there and then it isn't. Gil looks around, sees nothing, then gives Alexander a quizzical look.

Alexander shakes his head. “Forgive him, must have been the trick of the sun.” And Gil leaves it at that. Two passengers leave the wagon, only for three more to hop on, and Alexander makes conversation with them, telling them about his homeland. He does not talk of the Dragonborn thing, which pleases Gil. It is nightfall when they are making their way back to Windhelm, and the swaying if the wagon lulls Alexander into a slumber. The shadowy figure is all forgotten.

It is with the driver yawning and the wagon slowing to a stop that wakes up the passengers, and they are greeted with the snowy sight of Windhelm gates. Gil and Alexander step off and head to the stables, where a familiar wizard and tailor step out from the gates.

“Your timing is near impeccable!” Margarita greets the two, dressed for travel and carrying a Staff of Firestorm. A glass sword hangs from her hip. “We've arrived two hours ago, and Calder gave us a brief respite in your home.” Hercules trails behind her, a studded warhammer slung across his back and carrying a package.

“We've been gone for far too long, it feels,” Gil gives the Master-Wizard a friendly embrace. “My robe! Ah, Mulligan, you are a blessing from the Divines.” The noble doesn't mind stripping off his robes in the middle of the snow. Margarita frowns and Alexander averts his gaze. When Gil is done fitting the robe-- a resplendent masterpiece of gold and leather that shimmers with the enchantments bestowed upon it-- he looks more of a royal commander than anything. Alexander swallows down the envy in his heart.

Hercules is the only one who watched his Altmer friend change inscrutably. “There was a stable you could have changed in…” is all he says.

“Couldn’t wait, plus I've been traveling with dried blood for some time. I've _standards,_ Mulligan.” He rolls up the soiled robes into a ball and stuffs it in his sack without care. “It was as if I was traveling naked throughout Skyrim; the outrage of it all!”

“I'm to be rewarded for my services?” Hercules reminds him, but his tone is light-hearted. Alexander estimates the sum of Hercules’ price is princely, and he is almost staggered by the dizzying sum that Gil casually suggests. They set off to the west, towards the Hjaalmarch Hold, with the light of the moons (and Margarita idly casting Magelight) to guide them. Gil takes out a hefty coin purse and counts the septims. When dawn came and Hercules suggests they stop to rest and break their fast, Gil stops at two thousand septims.

“Remind me to give you the rest when we make it to Morthal,” Hercules pockets the coins and Alexander suppresses the urge to shout in indignation. Who carries so much coin on them? A measly thirty septims are to his name, and there are those who carry the budget of whole stores in their pockets!

They are camped out several miles from the Tower of Mzark. Margarita tells of a tale where she and a group of battlemages and other scholars explored the depths of the Dwemer ruins, and that the myth was that all the Dwemer ruins are all connected underneath Skyrim. “An ancient and subterranean race called the Falmer dwell in the dark fathoms of the Dwemer ruins,” she explains to Alexander. “They raise and breed an insect creature called the Chaurus, whose poison runs a hefty price in markets.”

“Did the Master-Wizard tangle with these underground dwellers?”

“I did, they are a resilient lot. Should you find yourself in a Dwemer ruin, I’d suggest you’d turn back.” Margarita chews at a boiled creme treat. “Even if the Greybeards named you Dragonborn.” She looks at the distant tower, frowns at the wind blowing snow into a whorl towards the company. “My apologies, Alexander, for dismissing the idea that you were a Dragonborn.”

“The Master-Wizard has ample reason to doubt Alexander, for how can the savior of Skyrim come from Elsweyr? He would have made the same conclusion, were he you.”

Margarita nods. “Killing two dragons and absorbing their souls? A sight I would have loved to see. There is another dragon altar north of us, Skyborn Altar, it is named. In my travels, I have seen a dragon sleeping atop the tableau. I dare not go near, even though I know an array of spells and tricks that could fell a group of giants, but, if you and Gil could bring down one, perhaps the four of us could?”

“Are you suggesting we go and actively seek to kill a dragon?” Hercules whines, and Gil makes the same expression. Margarita cocks her head to the side and gives the two an unblinking stare.

The two stiffen and gather their things. “Skyborn Altar it is then?” Gil clarifies.

崮

John is near overcome with glee that his target is so easily found. His target is unarmed and unguarded, a base Staff in his hands and only an Amulet of Mara poorly hidden beneath his robes. So this is the whoreson Breton Alexander Hamilton, who claims to be Dragonborn. His frame is slender, yet he has an air of agility to him. Maybe he's also a thief; those are deft hands. How did that Seabury man lose to this guy again? Maybe Seabury really isn’t much despite his build. Alexander is a head shorter than his Altmer companion, with long dark hair and large dark eyes. They are filled with curiosity, wonder, as if he’s too entranced by the town he’s in (and why would he? Ivarstead is forgettable). Behind all of that though, John can see the fatigue in his expression. From the way he stands and how far away his gaze gets, Alexander harbors a few hardships in his heart.

John hasn’t let anything sway him from killing anyone. He nocks an arrow and aims; Alexander is standing in the doorway of Vilmeyr Inn, partially hidden by his Altmer companion and a wayward goat idly grazing. He can make the shot; his target isn’t paying attention.

The Altmer says something about going to Solitude, and calls for the wagon driver to take them away. John figures he might as well loose the arrow before his target goes; Alexander turns to follow the Altmer-

And then he turns his gaze to John’s position in the trees.

It’s enough to make John hesitate and cancel his arrow. His cowl feels itchy across his face and the sunlight burns even more, but he shrinks into the cover of the leaves. Can his target see him? He shouldn’t; an agent of stealth and an embracer of shadows he is, he can remain unseen at will.

Alexander stops walking and stares directly at John’s tree. Before John gets an itch to blow his cover and strike Alexander from the boughs, he turns away back to the Altmer paying the wagon driver. He climbs on the wagon with other riders, and the wagon is off without preamble. John slinks out of the tree and shifts away from the farmers and miners, unseen, keeping a distance. Perhaps he can assassinate the Breton from afar; he’s done it before.

Alexander is talking to his Altmer companion, his gaze idly wandering back to John. If he voices his concerns of being followed, they’re being ignored: the Altmer doesn’t seem to care. The sun is setting as they make a brief stop in Kynesgrove, and the glare reflecting off the snowmelt burns John’s eyes. He is irritated and he’s this close to blindly shooting at the wagon, killing everyone on that wagon so save him Sithis, but John prides himself in being a disciplined assassin, one of the best in his craft. Plus he is not in the mood with dealing with the Eastmarch guard hunting him for the rest of his days. So he waits.

The sun’s glare is waning enough to where John can ignore the pain and focus his vision. Alexander is stepping off the wagon to help an elderly Nord woman on it. His Altmer companion is purchasing Jazbay grapes from a fruit vendor and hurrying back to the wagon, and now it clicks in John's head. He was certain this noble looked familiar, and a trickle of dread courses down his spine. That's the Marquis de Lafayette of Lillandril, prodigy of the Telvanni school and Master of Electromancy. A Mer of incomprehensible magick potency, and rumored to be a better wizard than the Arch-Mage himself. John has heard of the noble’s exploits from third parties, how the Altmer can bring the sky down with a twitch of his fingers, can sunder an army of giants to dust, and other wild stories that the assassin has no desire to confirm their validity. But John just knows that if he were to cross paths with the Wizard, he would be treading on a death errand. He’s slain a few wizards, but he’s never tangled with a disciple of House Telvanni. Of course his target would be traveling with the most powerful wizard in Tamriel, so much for an easy contract and quick payment. What's the point of killing his target, if he is dead certain that his companion will reduce him to a pile of ashes? The wrong soul will be sent to the Void. Alexander needs to be apart from Lafayette if he is to be sure of staying alive after this contract. He'll intercept the Breton in Solitude  (that's where they said they were headed, no?), and Solitude is large enough for a foreigner to get lost, and John knows the city well. So that's where he'll kill the Breton. Seabury will just have to wait a bit longer.  

崮

Skyborn Altar requires the company trek up a mountain. Though not as steep as the Throat of the World, Alexander still feels the previous trek in his bones. His body strains and feels pain in places he never knew existed. Gil looks as if he wants to complain, but he remains silent as they trudge in the snow. Margarita is the only one bounding tirelessly with grace and enthusiasm. She looks as if she is one with the open world, and being confined to the College is a punishment in itself.

“You make us look like tired old men, Master-Wizard,” Hercules calls after her as she leaps off a snowy boulder.

“You are cooped up in a tiny room in the far corners of the Arcaneum for hours at a time,” Margarita answers, looking off to the west, smiling. “Does your soul not call to explore the land?”

“I find my comforts in enchanting and providing robes for mages sufficient enough, and I find ample exploration in the books enough to sate my curiosity.”

“I have spent years learning the arcane arts alongside my sisters, perfecting my magick and learning to expand my capabilities and find my solace. Angelica has found her place in being a brilliant noblewoman and commander, Eliza has discovered the joys of devoting her life to healing the wounded and being a handmaiden of Kynareth. Me, the boundaries of learning the histories of Tamriel and its treasures should not be limited to books. I learn more roaming an ancient tomb than sitting in the Arcaneum with my tomes.” she breathes in the frigid air and sighs. “I'd gladly take a minor position in the College if it meant I could explore more.”

“The Master-Wizard isn’t allowed to travel?” Alexander asks. He hears faint chanting in the wind, awful similar to the voices at Mount Anthor. A mute, yet insistent voice in his head begs to go find it.

“I am, but I'm mainly responsible for the day-to-day operations of the College, advise the Arch-Mage , to make sure the College is defended properly, that no apprentices have accidentally incinerated themselves, that there are no illegal experiments or practices in the walls, and filling in for other scholars. In short, it is a luxury to explore Skyrim, one that has cost me most of the respect I've earned when I was chosen for the responsibility,  but if the Arch-Mage had any complaints of my sudden explorations, he would have voiced them long ago.”

“Alexander deeply respects the Master-Wizard, for he can tell that you are disciplined in the arts of sorcery in ways that he can only dream of, and your determination to uncover the secrets of history moves him.”

“Silver your tongue is,” Gil says. “The Dragonborn being sweet on the Master-Wizard.”

The company continues their journey, westward towards Hjaalmarch. The climb is aided with worn steps sinking into the mountain. Ice makes Alexander and Hercules slip on occasion. The chanting grows louder as they grow closer, and Alexander fights the urge to tug Margarita’s arm to ask if she can hear it, but remembers that only he can.

“Beyond the altar, the Shrine of Mehrunes Dagon stands . A coven called the Mythic Dawn sought refuge in the Pale in the second era, and built a shrine in the Prince’s favor.” Margarita gestures to the mountain in the distance. Alexander sees a dome, but nothing else.

“Master-Wizard,” Alexander starts, and she turns to him. “When Alexander and Master Lafayette braved the dragon on Mount Anthor, he heard voices.”

“Voices?”

“It came from the stone altar. Chanting, ancient and entrancing him to come closer. He knows not what it said to him, but, it is where he learned to Shout ice to encase a person solid.” And Alexander recites the incantation from memory, the word _Iiz_ making the air feel a few degrees cooler.

Margarita frowns and translates. “ _Here lies Iglif Ice-blood, who met his end not in glorious combat, but at the cruel touch of the withering sickness._ ” is what she says.

“And who is he?”

“An old Nord hero who became Harbinger of the Companions in the First Era,” Margarita shrugs. “I thought his final resting place was in the Sea of Ghosts but, mayhaps they interred him in Winterhold.” They approach the near collapsed altar. There is no dragon there-- it must be off to find livestock to sup on. The chanting grows louder and Alexander struggles to run towards it to quell the noise.

“Do you hear that, Master-Wizard?” he asks, despite knowing the answer.

“A hideous flap of wings in the wind,” Margarita readies her staff and Gil follows suit, summoning a Flame Atronach. “The dragon approaches.” The words seem to catch in her throat as a giant black shadow looms over them suddenly, a flurry of snow being blown in their faces. Hercules holds his warhammer in a blocking position to block the snow.

The dragon is blue-skinned, with scales black as the mountain glittering like the snow. Blood drips from its great teeth, and every beat of its wings sends flurries of snow to the company. Margarita summons a Wall of Flames with a flick of her wrist and Gil's Flame Atronach does a deadly dance while shooting fireballs at the dragon. The dragon is merely ruffled by the fire, for it dodges and weaves in the air from the spells, shouting flames and frost from its mouth in return. Between the incessant chanting and the dragon, Alexander was near immobilized from the noise. His spells continue to miss, and when he wants to shout, the words are frozen on his tongue. He doesn’t feel fear with this battle, though irritation crumples his brow as he fails to land any hits.

Hercules scrambles to the altar, as his warhammer proves useless against a flying enemy. There’s a few base spells he knows, but they’re powerless compared to the sheer ferocity of Margarita’s and Gil’s spells. The dragon has to drop down eventually. Gil’s Flame Atronach disappears in a fizzle, only for a grotesque Storm Atronach to be instantly conjured in its place. It shoots lightning bolt after lightning bolt, while Margarita conjures a whirlwind of bone-chilling frost and flame that engulfs the dragon enough for it to finally drop to the ground in a great heap. Instantly the Master-Wizard whirls her blade with deft proficiency, striking the dragon’s wings. Hercules takes his chance, braving the frost spells’ proximity and swinging his warhammer straight into the dragon’s teeth. The dragon roars and snaps at the Orsimer, and Alexander finally gets a hit when he shouts _FUS RO DAH_ right in the dragon’s eyes. The force of his shout shakes the Breton and the earth and his companions, and the dragon is severely shaken. Alexander seems to come to his senses as he continues to shoot flames at the dragon, who snaps at his body. One tooth snags on Alexander’s robe, close enough to dig in his flesh. The Breton hisses, his magicka near depleted, but a fire still burns in his eyes.

“ _Krograhdiin fen al daar Joor wah Alduin_ ,” the dragon bellows, taking another bite at Alexander, but the Breton whirls away and Hercules swings his hammer mightily, right on Krograhdiin’s snout. Margarita summons a Lightning Storm so large it immobilizes Alexander. Gil and his Storm Atronach render the dragon motionless with their spells, and the dragon looks desperate to escape from the onslaught.

Alexander regains his wits and savagely barks out _IIZ_ , and a thin film of ice surrounds Krograhdiin’s head, cutting off the dragon’s air. It struggles to break through the ice, but it’s powerless to the ice’s hold. Hercules raises his warhammer a final time, slamming the weapon right between the dragon’s eyes. The ice cracks and a little crumbles away, and Krograhdiin moves no more. Gil sighs as his Storm Atronach is dismissed, and sits down in the snow to regain his magicka. There’s a colorful mixture of relief and bewilderment on Margarita’s face, and the same is mirrored on Hercules. The bewilderment transforms into shock and disbelief as the dragon’s carcass slowly crumbles away, scales scattering in the wind in glittery swirls. Its body is engulfed in warm light, slowly melting away and reducing the great dragon to nothing but bones.

“Praise Julianos, it’s true,” Margarita breathes as a whirlwind ensnares Krograhdiin’s corpse. “Alexander can absorb-- Alexander?” She turns to see the Breton is not standing amongst them. “Where-?” She turns to the dragon altar, where Alexander plants a palm to the stone, leaning his entire body weight against it. His eyes are screwed shut, muttering to himself, as the same light that consumed the dragon encircles the Dragonborn. The wind picks up and a whirlwind captures Alexander, but he remains motionless.

And then the light is gone.

Alexander eventually removes himself from the stone, steps shaky. He turns to his companions and takes in their looks of awe and wonder.

“Never in my life, nor in my studies, have I seen such a sight,” Margarita breathes. “ _Magnificent_ , is what this was. I’m glad we took this opportunity.”

“I’m glad we’re alive,” Hercules remarks, catching his breath.

“There is new hope to be found now, for Alexander is the Dragonborn and can absorb the lives of dragons,” Gil stands to gesture at the Breton. “He must meet Jarl Washington.”

“He must meet my sister. He must join the rebellion and aid the Stormcloaks.” Alexander is quiet. “Is something the matter, Alexander? Are you hurt?”

It takes the Breton a while to speak. “The stone called to him,” he says. “The chanting, it was so loud to Alexander’s ears. It… distracted him, he was useless in combat. Forgive him.” His eyes are downcast.

“No matter, we live and another dragon lives no more,” Gil smiles. “You learned a new word from the Wall, I take it?”

“ _Pah werid sonaan Lunerio, wen yuvon lovaas meyz Fo, het ko vulon_ .” Alexander recites, and at the word _Fo_ his lips are tinged with frost and his breath makes him shiver.

“ _All praise the bard Lunerio, whose golden voice became frost, here in the night._ ” Margarita translates. “Who knew a bard also knew the Way of the Voice?”

“In any case, we must hurry to Solitude. We shan’t keep the Thane of Haafingar waiting.” Alexander goes to follow his companions, when he sees a chest half-buried in the snow. It must have been uncovered in the battle. He goes to it and wipes the snow from the lock, which was brittle from the weather. It came apart easily in his hands, and when he opened the contents, he lets out a chuckle.

Gil turns to see Alexander isn’t following them. “Alexander?” He calls. “What is it now?”

Alexander waves his newly found enchanted steel sword, and smiles. “All praise the boon of the bard Lunerio, whose gifts are golden--” an ancient yet hefty coinpurse laden with sapphires and Septims lies beneath a princely mage hood that Alexander puts on-- “and his sword of true make!”

 

崮

It is another day and a half until they make it to the Haafingar Hold, and when the sun rose at dawn of the second the company approach the gates of the capital. Imperial dragon banners adorn the great doors of Solitude, and a flank of Imperial guards at the gate. They open when they realize the Marquis de Lafayette and the Master-Wizard are approaching. A friendly greeting is given to the company, with a stern warning that they must adhere to the White-Gold Concordat while in the walls of the Solitude. But Hercules gives Alexander some assurance: there is so much to see and do in Solitude, there are many opportunities and pleasures awaiting him beyond the gates. They enter.

John is already waiting in Solitude, hiding in the many crawl-spaces of the barracks atop the gates. He arrived half a day ago, scoping the place and resting in the far shady corners of Castle Dour. He is weaving through the Imperial gentry crowd making their way to the bazaars and the shops when he hears of the Marquis arriving in Solitude, with the Master-Wizard from the College of Winterhold in his attendance. So his target has gained the protection of another powerful wizard, and an influential one at that. If he remembers correctly, Margarita Schuyler is a sister to a priestess of Kynareth in Whiterun and a Thane in Solitude, and a good friend to someone he knows. She is an extremely capable Wizard, has to be if she is next in line to be Arch-Mage. Tangling with her, and Lafayette, is a sure defeat for him. But he knows this city well, and so far no one has seen him in the time he’s been here. The crowds have him hidden enough to where he removes his cowl, and the sunlight isn’t so much a nuisance.

It takes a moment to spot his target. There is Alexander Hamilton, shrouding his head in a grey hood. He’s at the bazaar with Lafayette and Schuyler, but is talking to an Orsimer about some bauble. He could easily take out the Orsimer, but _wait_ , just be patient Laurens, your opportunity will come.

崮

Alexander feels that shadowy presence of something following him once more. It all but remained forgotten back in Kynesgrove, and here in the cosmopolitan glory of the capital, it was completely forgotten. It must surely be nothing, for he didn’t feel it while traveling to Solitude, and when he turns, there’s no one of suspicion. But prying orbs are boring at his form, and he thinks he sees some phantom figure in the distance, with burning eyes like embers. He turns from the alchemist’s stand and looks. There’s nothing. Hercules has gone off to a shop called Radiant Raiment, and Gil and Margarita are seeking an audience with the acting Jarl of Solitude. If he needed to find Gil, he would have to find Hercules to show him where the Blue Palace is, but he isn’t certain that his Orsimer friend even knows. He weaves through the crowd and past a rowdy group of bards leaving the inn the Winking Skeever towards the finery shop and he steps in. There’s an Altmer female talking to Hercules, dressed in ornate and expensive robes, and they’re looking over bolts of cloth.

The Altmer notices Alexander’s presence, sees his state of dress, and wrinkles his nose. “I _doubt_ you’ll be able to afford one of my garments,” is all she says to Alexander’s direction.

“Master Mulligan,” Alexander ignores her. Hercules turns to him. “Alexander needs to know the way to the Blue Palace, he must find Master Lafayette at once.”

“Who is Alexander?” The Altmer cuts in the conversation, and Alexander resists the urge to glare at her.

“Alexander is this man right here,” Hercules replies.

“Then why does he speak like that?”

“He’s from Elsweyr,” Hercules approaches Alexander. “Is something the matter?”

“Something’s following him. He’s being watched.” He doesn’t miss the Altmer’s eye roll.

“Solitude is a large and populous city; you’ve yet to grow accustomed to the ways of the people here. No one is following you,” Hercules waves a hand to the Altmer woman. “This is Taarie, owner of the Radiant Raiment.” Alexander just curtly nods in her direction. “And this is Alexander Hamilton, a Breton from Elsweyr.”

“So that's where that accent is from,” Taarie turns away to shut away her jewelry. Alexander feels fury bubble in his chest, the overwhelming need to set her right and have her apologize for her impudence, but right now he needs to find Gil.

“The Blue Palace is at the far end of the city, across the bridge. I’ve business here still, so I’ll come by later.” Alexander turns to head back to the door, eager to be rid of Taarie’s company. The hustle and bustle of Solitude flows uninterrupted, and Alexander cuts through the river of people to the east. His gaze darts to every face in the crowd, and none hold the unblinking and blazing stare of something from the dark. The crowd thins out into stragglers in alleys by giant stone houses; a few orphans here and there. Alexander gets lost in a winding street that leads him to the Temple of Arkay, and he doubles back towards the noise of the bazaar, and heads the other direction.

 

崮

John stalks his target and is pleased that this Breton is unknown to Solitude, and takes a small pleasure in seeing him lost in the streets. This will make it easier. Silently dropping from the rooftops to the cobblestone streets, he crouches behind a cart of goods. A Solitude guard crosses Alexander, and the Breton looks as if he wants to alert the guard, but he remains silent. If the guard could see John, he chose to remain quiet. John’s been told that he is terrifying to look at sometimes, and this is one of those instances where his monstrosity aids his task. The guard would do well not to cross John. The guard turns right to the plaza, and John is finally alone with the Breton.

Alexander turns, and looks straight at John. Sees right through him, and John hasn't had anyone do that to him since he joined the Brotherhood.

“ _What_ are you?” He whispers after a while, and John pauses from unsheathing his blade. He said _what_ , not _who_. This man is perceptive. John almost wants to reveal himself.

“Are you here to kill Alexander?” The man doesn't sound afraid; rather distracted. Fatigue laces his exotic tone and a twinge of pity stings John,  but not enough to stop him.

At John’s silence, Alexander grows frustrated. “At least indulge a lowly Breton’s question before he is unjustly sent to his grave.” He growls and John grins behind the cowl.

“You have a meeting with Sithis,” is all he says, revealing his sharp blade to stab with deadly precision. The blade doesn't make it to Alexander, for one second he is vulnerable and alone, and the next two Dremora flank him, a scaled arm from a Daedric churl grabbing at the assassin’s throat before he can even raise his blade in defense. Before John realizes it the second Dremora wields a sword of fire and makes an aim at John’s chest, and it's been a lifetime since he’s had fear in him.

Who summoned these Daedric servants? From Alexander’s shocked expression, John was sure this Breton didn’t even have the skill to do so. The assassin stood frozen in terror, the flaming blade searing the leather.

“Tenet five of the Black Sacrament,” comes a voice from behind John, and he doesn't need to turn to know who that is. “Never kill a Dark Brother or Sister. In all my years serving the Dread Father I wouldn't have dreamed of straying from the code.” The Dremora with the blade pulls back as Aaron Burr walks into John’s view. The Conjurer’s black-eyed gaze chilled the assassin to his core.

“But for this man, should you harm a hair on his head, I would gladly forsake my place in the Brotherhood if it meant sparing him.” The Dremora clutching John’s throat releases him, and the assassin ungraciously slumps to the ground, his dagger falling beside him. He remembers to breathe.

Alexander shakes his head and regains his senses. “Master Burr!” he gasps. “What is the meaning of this? What has Alexander done to have a thing of the shadows after his life?”

“What you have done, I know not, I just know to stop him.” Aaron grabs at John’s cowl and pulls the shroud from the assassin’s face. The man is pale, with a scattered splotching of freckles covering his face. His hair is pulled back, barely constraining the curls that threaten to break free from his cord. But his nose is scrunched and pointed like a moth, inhuman, and when the assassin blinks away the sun’s glare and Alexander sees his eyes, he's taken aback by the man's eyes being a flaming red. Pinpricks of sunfire, blazing and unflinching.

Aaron sees Alexander’s confusion. “A jape from the Lord of Coldharbour himself,” he explains. “To have his eyes be an image of the sun, when he cannot walk in its light. We'll get a confession out of this vampire whether he wants to tell or not.”

崮

Well this is embarrassing, John thinks as Aaron summons spectral bonds to drag the assassin towards the Blue Palace. Alexander warily checks back to look at his attacker, looking like he wants to say something, but looks at the bonds that shackle John's hands, and he turns his head away.

Aaron continues to berate and chastise John, like a mother does to her child. “Never in my life did I think to reveal my true self to anyone, and here you are, traipsing the region trying to kill innocents, forcing us both to be exposed. Your bloodlust will be the true end of you.”

“Master Burr, are you trying to tell Alexander-” Alexander stammers out.

“That I'm a vampire? No, though the temptation crossed my mind many times.” Aaron sighs and yanks at the spectral bonds. John hisses silently at the ghostly burn against his wrists.

“You are Dragonborn, so the whole “If I tell you, I'd have to kill you” clause must be thrown out for the sake of Tamriel. This is an assassin of the Dark Brotherhood. Ever heard of them in Elsweyr?”

“The Brotherhood was destroyed decades after the Oblivion Crisis, and that was over two hundred years ago.”

“We are but a shadow compared to the former glory of the Brotherhood, but it lives on, with the Night Mother's guidance. This is a loyal assassin, one who found a place in the Brotherhood when his monstrosity kept him from blending in.” Aaron glances at John when the three make it to the shade of the Blue Palace, rolls his eyes at John’s visible sighing as he is shielded from the sunlight.

“So he’s a-”

“Vampire? Yes, yes I thought we covered this already.” Aaron doesn't make any move to release John from his bonds as a guard opens the ornate doors to the palace. They enter the dim manse, ignoring the questions of the steward asking for their business. “The Thane and the Master-Wizard are in the Northern Wing.” Aaron leads them to the corridors behind the throne, staying away from the Jarl’s line of view. Margarita and Gil are there with another woman, and are confused to see Aaron here with Alexander and a stranger.

Margarita frowns at John’s leather armor. “Are you-?” She recognizes the worn black handprint on his chest piece and fury washes over her. “Dark Brotherhood scum!” John glares and Aaron puts up a calming hand to stop the Master-Wizard from hexing the vampire to Oblivion.

“Caught him trying to kill Alexander.” The Conjurer’s nonchalance enrages Margarita even further.

“You have an assassin in your clutches and not in the hands of the Solitude guard? Your wits Burr, have you lost them?”

“And he tried to kill Alexander, yet you still keep him nearby!” Gil exclaims.

“There's a reason for everything. I will personally deal with the assassin myself; I'm just escorting Alexander to you. A man wandering the city without guidance; I just knew he needed to be taken to you. Now he's here, unharmed, see?” he gestures at the awestruck Breton who remained silent, wide-eyed and while unhurt, is visibly shaken. “And since I've no desire to listen to the politics of this company, I will take my leave with this scoundrel, and will figure a just punishment for him.”

There’s a long and uncomfortable silence that stifles the room. Alexander is still too overwhelmed to say anything and Gil and Margarita are suppressing the urge to blast John into smithereens. It is the woman whom Alexander has never seen before, waves a hand to dismiss the Redguard.

“Do as you wish Burr, I know you're capable of cleaning up this mess.” She says and Margarita looks at her, stupefied.

“Surely you can't mean to have us do nothing!”

“You and I both know of the Master Conjurer’s capabilities, and I have full confidence that Burr can take care of this little mishap with minimal fuss. With us in the Empire's territory, it's good to lay low, right Master-Wizard?”

Margarita looks visibly torn, and looks to Alexander for protest, but the man remains silent.

The woman nods to Aaron. “Take your leave, Burr, but later I hope to discuss a matter with you.”

“Quite, now if you'll excuse us,” Aaron has the gall to salute, and he turns on his heel out the door, the disgruntled and embarrassed assassin dragged behind. The door is closed shut and Alexander remembers to breathe.

Gil is the first to offer a consoling hand on the Breton’s shoulder. “An attempt on your life?” he gasps. “Who would dare do such a thing?”

“Are you okay, Alexander?” Margarita comes forward. “I can't believe someone tried to have you killed!”

“It is but a thing he is used to,” his voice is awkward and creaky. “Alexander owes Master Burr a life debt.”

“I wouldn't gladly swear your fealty to Burr,” the woman speaks up. “He may be chivalrous and heroic to others, but he has a sick and black mind, and only cares about his best interests.”

“Alexander has yet to find a flaw in Master Burr, regardless of the cruelty of your words, he can’t believe you.” Alexander tries to look defiant and stare the woman down, but her stoic composure and unblinking stare makes Alexander feel small. She is an enchanting beauty, with long dark hair held back by a sapphire and ebony circlet and skin like Aaron’s and Hercules’. Her ears are slightly pointed like Margarita’s. Though clothed in the finest dress Alexander has ever seen [spun pink silk from the Imperial city, golden stitching and surely worth more than Alexander’s ancient mage hood] a greatsword is strapped to her back, the brown leather strap contrasting with the delicate pink. Her posture is enviously perfect, her presence commands respect, and an icy air surrounds her.

“So this is the Alexander Hamilton,” this noblewoman speaks. “Proclaimed Dragonborn by the Greybeards themselves, and slew three dragons. This is the savior of Skyrim?” She looks at Margarita for confirmation, and the Master-Wizard nods uneasily.

“A savior of Skyrim he is unsure of, and Alexander would not have defeated the dragons had he not the aid of the Master-Wizard and Master Lafayette. Alexander is but a simple mage in hopes of healing the sick. How he became Dragonborn, only the Divines have the answer.”

“Your humility is bracing, yet I appreciate it. I am Angelica Schuyler, Thane of Haafingar and Master Cyromancer.” Alexander blinks at the name and looks at Margarita. “Your sister?” The Master-Wizard nods.

“Gil sent a courier to Margarita and myself posthaste. You shouted, and absorbed the soul of Bromvenvik, as well as Krograhdiin’s.”

Alexander shifts uneasily. “It is not a power Alexander asked for,” he mumbles. “And if he could, he would give it away willingly if it meant to return to the College and continue his studies. A fortnight ago and Alexander only worried of his caravan and bandits, here and there. He had hoped, _prayed_ , that the harshness of his life in Elsweyr would not follow him. And yet he has been separated from his people, nearly wrongfully executed, and sent away from the place he hoped to call home. And an attempt made on his life? The horrors of his childhood cling to him no matter where he goes.”

“I will cut to the chase- the Greybeards have offered their guidance; have taught you how to use your gift. I would offer an invitation to join the Stormcloak rebellion. With word of the Dragonborn on the side of the Stormcloaks, the Empire will feel a crushing blow.”

“How?” It is Alexander who asks this. “From the Master-Wizard’s words and knowledge, the Dragonborn is still a myth, and Alexander is known by few. Aside from a few spells to defend himself, Alexander is not a hero. To the people of Skyrim, he is nothing.”

Angelica is unperturbed by the Breton’s protest. She smiles easily and walks up to him. Her height rivals her sister’s and Gil’s and Alexander feels like a child once more. “When you gain the trust of the Greybeards, and they teach you more, and you continue to eradicate dragons, more will rally to the cause of the Stormcloaks when word of the Dragonborn trying to stop the Empire's stain on Skyrim spread, eventually the people feeling lost and hopeless with a dragon scourge and a war occurring all at once will flock to the Stormcloaks and aid the cause.” at Alexander looking down trying to process this, Angelica puts her hands on his shoulders. “A war going on is hell, and a return of dragons is even worse. I ask so much from you when we've only just met, and I'm sorry for all the strife you've endured while in Skyrim, but you could save so many people with your gift.”

“You would ask Alexander to do as the Greybeards ask, seek their friendship and use it to aid the Stormcloaks?” Alexander clarifies, still not looking up.

“I speak for the countless citizens of Skyrim who feel oppressed and wish for a savior to rid them of their troubles. I ask you to help us, for the trouble only grows.”

Alexander is quiet for a long moment, and Gil wants to cut in the silence with something light, maybe they could have dinner-when's the last time Alexander ate?- when the Breton finally speaks. Angelica releases his shoulders.

“Can he take some time to think on this?” he asks, and when looks up something akin to anger is threatening to surface. “Forgive him, my lady, but you ask too much of him, and he needs to… process this.”

“I ask too much because there is nothing else I could do, but yes, please, think this through. Learn more from the Greybeards, muster your bravery against the dragons, but please, there is so much at stake.”

“That he has heard, now, if you would excuse him.” Alexander turns on his heel and walks out the door, leaving the confines of the palace without a care where he ended up.

崮

“You can remove the bonds from me,” John calls after Aaron as they leave the palace towards Castle Dour. “What more could you do to me at this moment?”

“Quiet, I'm still figuring out what to do with you.” Aaron leads them to an empty corner behind the Imperial garrison, the sounds of soldiers sparring muffled by the brick walls. “I revealed myself to Alexander, and he probably told the others.”

“Doubtful, did you see his face? Why on Nirn would he walk with you with his potential killer behind him?”

“About that, explain yourself.”

“What’s there to explain? A man named Seabury prayed to the Night Mother for me to carry out the hit for a Breton who speaks like a Khajiit, and casts spells.” John scowls and his deformed nose crinkles even more. “Just doing my job.”

Aaron leers at John. “What did Alexander even do to have an attempt on his life?” he asks.

“Petty squabble, used magick in a bare handed brawl, shouted some curse, proclaimed to be Dragonborn.”

Aaron tsks in disappointment. “A drunken lout who worries about his nonexistent pride and goes to horrid measures. And yet you agreed to take it.”

John shrugs. “A job is a job” he answers. “ Now could you take these off?” Aaron sighs and waves a hand to the bonds, and they dissolve into the air. John relaxes at the slight abatement of the burn. “My shroud now.”

“You'd benefit from this instead, here.” Aaron conjures a black flask and shoves it in John's hands. “Drink you fool, when's the last time you’ve fed?”

“Long ago but I'm not hungry-” but Aaron doesn't take no for an answer and grabs John’s jaw, forcing the assassin to tilt his head. John could fight back, but he wouldn't get far. Aaron seeps with cunning to be outmatched.

“Open,” the Conjurer commands, and John relents. Aaron pours the flask down John’s throat and the vampire coughs and groans, jerking away.

“Enough already.” He sputters, wiping the blood from his mouth. The taste of the blood was enough for his body to react, for the burn of the sun lessened and his nose was returning to normal.

“When you don't feed your nose gets ugly, and you really look like a monster.” Aaron points out. “I could only stand to look at that face for so long.” John just bares his sharp teeth, glistening with blood.

“So what are you doing in Solitude?” John takes another gulp from the flask. Damn it, once he gets a taste he can't stop.

“Business, I've arrived yesterday.”

“You ever get around to it?”

“Was too busy saving the skin of the Dragonborn from being needlessly murdered.”

“What does it matter to you if I kill him?” John presses. “So what if he's Dragonborn? Means nothing to me.”

Aaron looks away and briefly looks pained. “I know that being an assassin and a constant deal-maker with Daedric Lords doesn’t leave me much for compassion for life,” he begins. “But the dragons appearing signify something horrible that end the very existence of Skyrim, maybe even Tamriel itself.”

“Tamriel could burn in the Hellfires of Oblivion for all I care.” John gripes, but Aaron’s glare stops him making more snide comments.

“In legends Dragonborn were known to stop the dragons from a great force destroying the whole world. Thousands of years ago they saved Tamriel and its people from the horrors of the dragon scourge. But then the Dragonborn were gone, died out, and even those who spend their entire life trying to master the Way of the Voice, take a pacifist route and allow chaos to roam wild.

“At first I was resigned to the idea of the world ending. Anything to stop the war, I suppose. We all die, do we not? But then this unassuming and foreign man comes from afar and endures the impossible, and slays not one, but _three_ dragons? And the Greybeards have heralded him Dragonborn, and he knows a power that neither the Arch-Mage himself, nor Margarita, nor I, nor even yourself can accomplish what this man achieved in a week's time.” Aaron lets out a heavy breath. “Alexander doesn't know it yet, but he is the savior of Skyrim. He is too important. Were he anyone else I wouldn't blink an eye to you carrying out the kill, but I can't allow you to kill him. I hereby dissolve your contract. I will consult with the Night Mother about this, but Alexander Hamilton must _not be killed._ ” John takes another gulp of blood to distract himself from Aaron’s piercing gaze. “In fact I… I think there is something you must do instead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1000000000 apologies for not updating like I should. When was the last time I did- October? Christ alive I'm the worst.  
> Recap! So uh  
> I saw Hamilton  
> The election happened and discouraged the hearts of many  
> Saw SHINee for the 4th time  
> Cosplayed for once  
> Took up drinking  
> Just became bitter
> 
> Uh any other things about Elder Scrolls I need to clarify? Aaron is Speaker for the Dark Brotherhood, and why would he outrank a 100+ year old vampire nightstalker? Details later homie. Hmmm uh yeah this chapter is long whoops.

**Author's Note:**

> Tried to match the races of the cast with the races of Skyrim, with a few creative liberties. Lafayette is an Altmer (High Elf), a race known for being incredible wizards. He is an Alteration master, and a master of Destruction.  
> Hercules is half Orc, half Redguard. Orcs get no loving.  
> Made Burr a conjurer because I wanted him to be unorthodox; to seek the knowledge of Magick in every form. He discovered he found his speciality in summoning from Oblivion realms, and look just hang tight friends for a Burr backstory. If I think on it  
> The Schuyler sisters will be be biologically related and next chapter we will see Angelica  
> You will see John as well.  
> This is supposed to turn into a Lams fic, but I aim to slow burn y'all so much you might as well just read for fun if you like dragons. And magic.
> 
> Why does Alexander talk like that? In the games Khajiit speak in the third person as a sign of humility??? Or they just speak like that. Khajiits almost never use I. Being raised among the Khajiit folk since birth, Alexander will naturally speak like that
> 
> Orlando Bloom's down there though, somewhere.


End file.
